Death's Advocate
by Firebird41
Summary: OC It is the year 2006. Wesker is on the verge of resurrecting Umbrella from the depths. And to insure that no one will stop him, he hires Death's Advocate. It get's better past maybe the first two chapters. R&R UPDATED! CHAPTER 8 added!
1. Prologue

A.N. I'm writing this becuase my first story was most likely a failure. This is better.

Disclaimer: Aren't they all the same?

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Prologue

**Location:** Beijing, China

**Target**: Russian Ambassador Ivan Arkov

**Date**: Friday, May 19, 2006

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A pain in my neck tells me that I've been looking up for too long. The hotel looks nice from the outside. It's a tall building, probably twenty or so floors. Panes of glass surround the outside reflecting the city's lights back on itself. I can see people walking about in their rooms, some moving to close the curtains and cut off the rest of the city from watching them. But there is _always_ _one_ who is watching. I'm not here to relax, however, oh no; my target is here, resting up. If not for Arkov I could loosen up here and disappear. But what I do is _sacred. _It _must_ be done. I take one last breath and step toward the entrance.

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According to the digital alarm clock on his bedside table, Arkov could read that it was 3:41 in the morning. _Oh wait, 3:42._ So who the Hell was it that was insistently knocking on his door? Arkov grunted as he slipped out of bed, reaching for the small lamp, his robe and his custom, suppressed Makarov 9mm from the drawer. It was just a little protection as his bodyguards would be sound asleep down the hall. Plus he'd had it since his Cold War days.

He'd been, what many people would think as, crooked. But they were the crooked ones. From the inside he had tried to gain control of the Red Army, but to no avail. His efforts were continuously put to waste as no one wanted to focus on him. Everyone was waiting for that siren to go off telling everyone that a missile had been launched. Had he gotten a hold of the Red Army, he would've marched it to Moscow and make himself Premier as was supposed to be. He had spilt his share of blood to get that far but it was just too much at the time. The Soviet Union wasn't ready for another revolution. But he would have it soon. A few more lives would be spent, he calculated. He would also have to do some outstanding work in China to maybe gain some favor. But for now, he would have to deal with the persistent person at the door.

Arkov navigated his way through the dimly lit suite. Being an Ambassador did have its pros. He had been given a large suite on the twentieth floor, the top floor. He had a balcony that provided an excellent view of Beijing but also gave him front row seats to Beijing's terrible air. In the large living room sat a large leather sofa, perfect to watch his large plasma screen TV. His Chinese wasn't that great, however, but he figured he could understand most of it. His bathroom had been larger than normal, including a shower and one of those soothing therapeutic baths. _Maybe I'll drown who ever is knocking on my door in it._

Tucking the 9mm away in his robe, he slowly approached the door. He grabbed the knob, turned it, and pulled the door away revealing a somewhat medium sized man. He was Caucasian. Adorning him were khaki pants, a white dress shirt, a tie, and a pants-matching blazer. On his face, he wore sunglasses, to mask his facial expressions and on his head sat a Fez. _Who is this fool?_

"What do you want? It's three, almost four, in the morning and you decide to wake me up just like that?" Arkov questioned in English, his accent somewhat improved then from several years ago. "Who are you?"

The man took a breath, stepped inside and shut the door. Arkov became alarmed by this new intruder. _Just who the hell is _he_ letting himself in?_

"I asked you a question! Who _are_ you?" This time Arkov slid his hand into his pocket, lightly clutching his Makarov.

"My name is Mustafa," the man claimed in a slight Indian accent, "and I am the man who will be killing you now."

Before Arkov could actually register what had just been said, the man lunged at him, removing a knife from the inside of his blazer. Arkov jumped back, hastily trying to remove his Makarov. It was stuck and 'Mustafa' was coming at him again. He came down with the knife, Arkov barely able to catch his arm and punched Mustafa in the face. Mustafa recoiled taking a few steps back. Readying himself, Mustafa charged Arkov again. This time Arkov grabbed him and tossed him against the wall making his sunglasses fall off, grinding his teeth as the knife somehow made contact with his flesh. Arkov was finished, this wasn't going to go on any longer. He ripped the Makarov from his pocket just as Mustafa charged yet again, and squeezed the trigger.

"Gah!" The man gasp as 9mm round entered his body. Mustafa dropped the knife and stared wide eyed at Arkov. Slowly, he placed two fingers on the wound in his lower abdomen and brought them to his face, his fear suddenly being realized. He looked at Arkov again who now had a cold look on his face. _Thwap!_ Another 9mm round, this time entering just underneath his rib cage. He stumbled back to wall and leaned up against it. This was it, his sad career as an assassin would be over in just a few- _Thwap!_ This one punched through his right lung. Breathing became a difficult as his right lung began to collapse and filled with blood. He coughed, spattering some blood on to the hard wood floor. With one last breath, Mustafa crumpled to the floor, leaving a bloody trail down the wall.

Arkov smirked. _Try to assassinate me, will he? _He approached the body and spat in his face. In Arkov's short but educating run as Ambassador, there had been five attempts to assassinate him. This would be the sixth, and undoubtedly the worst, attempt on his life. _Who just shows up and says 'I'm going to kill you now'? What an idiot. I want a challenge. _But that would have to wait. For now he was stuck with a bloody corpse sitting at the base of one of the walls of his suite. After placing the Makarov on he nearest counter he grabbed the nearest phone and called down for room service, asking for someone to clean up a certain mess. After he hung up the phone, he checked the cut on himself. _Not too deep; I'll live._ His mind slowly trailed back to the therapeutic bath. _Maybe while room service cleans this up I'll take a bath. Might sting a little, but over all it'll help me calm down._

There came another knock on the door. Arkov went to the door and opened it revealing a bald shaved, short, but lean, Filipino, about 5' 6" compared to Arkov's 6' 1", and a platinum cross around his neck. Behind him was the kart of cleaning tools and old towels.

"Do you speak English? Chinese?" Arkov inquired before letting the man and his kart in.

"English." Replied the Filipino man, his accent strong.

"Ah. I called because a man just tried to assassinate me."

"Are you okay?" the Filipino man asked, his concern sincere.

"Yes, but he did manage to cut me, but I'll be fine. He's over there," Arkov pointed out the bloody mess, "I managed to take him out before he got me." Arkov chuckled at this. "So just clean him up, or clean up the blood, whatever you're supposed to do." Archov moved for the bathroom and stopped, deciding that this room service guy can set up the bath, too. "Before you do that, could you prepare the bath for me?"

"I'm not supposed to do that," the Filipino mumbled.

"Come on, I'll tip you extra. Just do it, please."

The Filipino didn't say anything, instead moved to the bathroom and began to prep the bath.

Arkov bent over the body, reaching into Mustafa's pockets to search him. _Now let's see who hired you._ He pulled a small envelope from the inside of his blazer an opened it. Inside was a picture of himself, with words written on the back saying, "The target." There also was a bundle of money, about $100,000 dollars in US currency by the looks of it. _Too bad…_

"Sir, your bath is ready," the Filipino startled him, calling from the bathroom.

Arkov smiled and moved to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He removed his clothes and settled in to the nice, warm water, wincing a bit as the hot war stung his wound. It would go away soon, and he could just relax. Actually, he was feeling really relaxed already. He felt like sleeping but that might be fatal. He would just shut his eyes and settle in to the hot bath. It was so soothing that he eventually forgot about everything. Being abruptly woken, the attempt on his life, shooting the man; it was gone. He was so relaxed that he felt as if he couldn't move at all. _Wait a minute._ Arkov's eyes popped open as he looked down at himself. He couldn't move; he had some how been paralyzed. Instinctively he called for the room service man. And then came the panic. _I _can't _move! This is impossible! How could I be…what the hell is going on! _ At that moment, the Filipino man walked in sending waves of relief to Arkov, or at least to the parts of his body that he could feel.

"Oh thank you! You have to help me, I'm paralyzed!" Arkov cried. The man just looked down at him, a grim expression upon his face.

"I know," the Filipino said coldly, his accent replaced by an American one.

"What? What the hell have you done to me?" Arkov began shouting Russian insults at him.

"Be quiet," the man said, sharply. "You want to know what I did?" The Filipino removed a bottle and dangled it in front of Arkov's face. "I prepared your bath, and you had a cut. That's what I did."

Arkov became quiet, but his mind still kept going. _I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fuckin KILL you! _ That is, if he would be able to move again. The Filipino slowly moved beside the bath tub and stared Arkov in the eye.

"Your sins have not gone unnoticed, Ivan Arkov," he said slowly.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Arkov asked, grinding his teeth.

"I said QUIET! You have spilt the blood of many and He doesn't appreciate that. And He also knows that you plan to do more evil deeds in order to get what you want. I can't allow that to happen."

He had a lot of nerve calling Arkov evil. Sure some people had to die, and more would have to, but once he had Russia he would quickly return it back to the United States rivaling country that it had been and spread the ideals of socialism and communism all around the world and restore peace. And he wasn't going let some short Filipino stop him. Arkov continued to listen to the man's slow, cold voice. _'He'? Who's 'He'? _

"Who's 'He', your employer? Your 'Client'?" Arkov spat at the Filipino, the hit man, the _assassin_. Perhaps he could buy some time and his bodyguards would come for him.

"No, my 'Clients' and employers are merely messengers for Him," the assassin replied.

_Wait a minute…_ He'd heard of this man before. He'd heard of his style, telling his victim some kind of biblical or religious reference before killing them in a related way. _The Advocate_ as they called him.

"You're the one they call the Advocate, aren't you? Death's Advocate?"

A look of true surprise came upon his face. "So that's what they call me nowadays. No matter. Ivan have you ever been baptized?"

"No, I'm not Christian." True, he was atheist.

"Well, had you known you would know that it washes away our sins with water and oil. You are in need of this sacrament."

Arkov frowned at him. _Now what's he talking about?_ He looked back on himself and took note of all but his head being submerged in water. And he figured it out, a large fear taking hold of what was left of him to feel-

-and his fear was realized as the Advocate lightly pushed his head under water. There was no sense in fighting it; he was going to drown and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Something had been placed on the top his head, the part that was still sticking out of the water, like a large quarter. But it didn't matter what it was. He hadn't been holding his breath for too long but it already felt as if they were going to burst. Slowly, he lost consciousness, a blackness slowly taking over him until he could no longer feel anything at all.

The Advocate had already left, leaving both Mustafa and Arkov where they sat leaving no trace of a third person ever being in the room. By the time his bodyguards found Arkov, he had been long dead. The peculiar thing that they found, however, was a large wooden coin with the words '_His eyes peer into the soul and lays judgment upon thee_' in Latin and an eye carved into it; a calling card of the assassin now known as Death's Advocate.

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**Five Days Before…**

Albert Wesker slammed his fist down on his desk again. _Damn her, giving me that fake plagas. That bitch. _It had seemed convincing when she had first delivered it to him, alive and kicking, as they say. But the moment she disappeared it literally had died before his very eyes. Sure it had been two years ago, but something like that was like a sting that wouldn't go away. He had been eager to study it, extract it and test it out on new subjects. But because that bitch, Ada Wong, decided to double cross him, he got some crap in a vial. Wesker tapped his finger on the messy desk, the taps echoing through his dark office. _Oh well. Won't be long now; I got most of the equipment set up already and should be able to start work any day now. _Yes, he would start work on a new strain. He already had the T, G, and the T-Veronica viruses to work off of. But that plagas would've been _it_. He could've tried to combine them, inject two in to a test subject. _But no_. And if he did manage to get things off to a start again, he would have to remove some individuals, first.

They had tried once before to go public, but no one had believed them, until the spill. And then after that they just disappeared. _That was rude of them. Didn't even send a card._ He had met one of them shortly afterward, however, but then he went back in to hiding, this time taking his sister with him. He just knew, though, that once he started up _they _would interfere _again_ and he wouldn't have it. If only he knew where they were…well there was a reason why it was called "hiding". Once he found one of them it wouldn't be long until he found the rest. Wesker shook his head. What was he thinking? He didn't have time do anything. He had to get working, he had to start production. And once he'd fabricate plans for a new tyrant design he would send it to track down and kill those who apposed him. _Or…_

There was a man who could do it for him. But where to find him was an even bigger mystery. _If worse comes to worse I can always use the trusty internet._ He had plenty of other sources to use. It wouldn't be too hard to convince him to kill, as he had heard that he killed only those that deserved it. Well, in Wesker's mind they _did_ deserve it. _Yes…_ Albert Wesker turned to his computer, sending out messages to all his hidden contacts. _Where are you, Advocate?

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A.N. Okay, I want the reviews that tell me somthing. I want more than one sentence reviews. Tell me what's bad/good about it, including suggestions you may have._  
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	2. Unfinnished Buisness

AN-Now, this chapter used to be part of another 3000,or so, words, but I cut it down to just this. Those other 3000 words will go towards my next chapter. However, after today, I'm going to be really busy, and then school starts again. Thanks to Burningbridges and Jarhead for reviewing.

**Burningbridges:** Thanks for helping make that decision. Appreciate it.  
**Jarhead: **Sorry, man; DA ain't Hunk. Hope you'll still read it though.

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Chapter 1: Unfinnished Buisness

**Date: Friday, May 19, 2006 **

**Location: Beijing, China**

With my work finish and my calling card resting gently on Arkov's submerged head, I exit the bathroom, switching the light off and gently closing the door. Now all I need to do is make sure I never existed in the room. A quick, but thorough glance tells me everything I need to know; from a crime scene investigator's perspective, there are two corpses, male –the first was shot to death, taken down by two slugs, while the other, the shooter, had managed to drown in the therapeutic bath. The one who had been shot was killed in self defense –the knife and the corresponding wound on the shooter would show this –and then the shooter would have drowned in the bathroom. The only holes I can see are the missing weapon, the Makarov which I will take for collecting purposes, why Arkov would drown without intervening in his own death, and where the coin came from. I suspect they'll dust, not too much of a problem since I came up here with the intention of cleaning, thus on my hands are a pair of latex gloves. They'll probably look for an extra set of foot prints, also not too much of a problem, I hope. It's never nailed me before. And the only DNA that can be found will belong to that of the assassin that went before me and Arkov himself. The wooden coin, I made sure, didn't contain any fibers from my pockets, and even if it did, I'm wearing a disguise that I 'borrowed' from this hotel, so most likely the trail will end in a washing machine.

After checking the hall I slip outside, cart in front, and inconspicuously walk through the slightly cramped hall way to the elevators. With the job nearly complete, the only thing I have to do is return the cart, change my clothes, and place my disguise with the laundry. Now standing in the elevator, I press the button for laundry and management and hold my composure just until the doors close. As the elevator starts to descend, I take note of the dimness in the elevator, the dark red carpet and cherry wood panels absorbing the light from over head, and the accompanying silence (I guess they don't have muzac in China). Considering that I'll have to do some stressful "running and hiding" after I leave this elevator, I welcome the silence; this will probably be the only time I'll be able to relax until I'm on the plane. Makes me wish I could stay longer and enjoy the many amenities Beijing has to offer. Even though I had spent an extra two days observing him, that's all I did, observe. However, every minute I linger is another minute I could be caught. That's part of the reason I don't pull jobs within Italy, or around the northern Mediterranean for that matter, because that's where I live. The elevator slows to a halt, opening up to the red T junction that marks the beginning of the laundry and service floor.

First things first: I've got to rid myself of this disguise. Two signs, scrawled in Chinese, are present as I take measured steps from the elevator and venture to the top of the T junction. It's a rough translation but I believe the sign pointing to the right says "This way to washer and bathroom supply". I hang a right start down the twisting corridor, and it's overwhelming. Walking down this hallway is like being bombarded with red; the walls, ceiling and trim are all complimenting shades of, you guessed it, red. It's almost suffocating, and the brightness from the lights overhead is making my eyes hurt. I'm surprised that they don't have red light. A few more feet and I can hear washing machines spinning so I must be close.

There, I can see the door up ahead. The first thing I notice when I open the door is that the whole room is white; white tile floor, white walls, white trim, and white ceiling. It's such a sudden change from the red that now my vision seems to have a blue tint. The room is also rather large, that is if the washing machines weren't here. There's also another door on the other side, on the left, probably the room where they keep all the soaps and toilet paper. Then I notice is the Chinese man loading one of the washers –something I wasn't expecting; a simple error which under different circumstances could cost me dearly. I nearly stopped, shocked to see him, but continued to push my cart all the way to one of the unused washers. The only problem is I don't have anything to wash, besides my disguise, and it seems the China man knows this; he keeps shooting strange glances towards me. Problem is I can't kill him, not yet anyway.

I only kill those who I feel deserve it; this is the basis on which I choose my contracts. So how do I know they deserve it? I consider myself a religious man. Others, however, may see me as a mislead man. Basically, I ask my employer to give me a reason that is considered sin against God (yes I said God, not Allah, not Yahweh…Yhwh, not "the gods", God) and humanity. Then, it's like the "barbarian" days, when people as a community would stone the wicked to death, only this time it's just me. Once I've signed to a contract I believe the only one who should die is the target, or targets depending on the order. But should it ever come down to an innocent's death or my reveal, then I must safe guard my secrecy. It's not something I particularly enjoy, but in some cases it's necessary. Today, the only people who need to die already have. From what I can see, this man looks exhausted; it's four in the morning and he has bags under his eyes. I'll put him to sleep.

Reaching quietly under the cart, I grab the second of two bottles that I bring on a job. The first bottle was filled with the paralyzing agent, a weak form of tetrodotoxin, I used on Arkov. The second bottle, the one in my hand, is an anesthetic, or sedative. Why do I bring these? For situations like this. If I need to put some one under, or paralyze them temporarily, I just have to use one of the bottles.

Taking a small cloth from my cart, I fold it up into a neat square and douse it with enough anesthetic to put him under till sunrise. I slowly turn around and see that he has his back to me. Now for the sneaking part. I get low, into an almost crouching stance so that I'm forced to walk on the balls of my feet. In seconds I cross the room, the sounds of the washers and my own stealth prevent the man from noticing me. I position myself directly behind him, the man completely oblivious as he sets the washer. "Sleep tight," I whisper before grabbing the man and covering his mouth with the anesthetic-doused cloth.

He's strong willed –I'll give him that. The man bucks wildly, trying to free himself from my grasp while also trying to pry the cloth from his mouth. I'm even holding him in such a way that his movements should be minimal and so far I've had to change my grip several times just so that I can't elbow me. Now his movements are starting to slow down, a welcome sign of the anesthetic. His muffled screaming is starting to tone down to a drunken groan. No longer is he trying to rip the skin off my hand covering his mouth, either. Slowly, I begin to lay him out on the ground, still keeping the cloth over his mouth. I keep the cloth on for another ten seconds and watch for any kind of movement before removing the cloth. A loud snore escapes his mouth and I smile at my handy work. There's always a nonviolent way to things, unless, of course, I have to kill them. I pick up his body and carefully place him in the laundry basket, taking care to cover him up with some other dirty bed sheets and pillow cases.

Now that that is done, I remove my disguise and throw it in with one of the already spinning washers. Then, reaching underneath my cart I grab up my original suit; probably the most expensive set of clothing I own, I always wear a sky blue dress shirt, and two piece suit that's like a lighter version of the suit the previous hit man wore, the hit man Arkov killed. I also have a pair of matching leather gloves to prevent me from leaving fingerprints. On my feet is pair of mahogany, rubber-soled, Italian custom made dress shoes. They're rubber-soled so that I can run in them. On jobs, this is my standard outfit, and is very expensive to replace. Inside the jacket is room for the target information, three pistols, or two Deagles (Desert Eagles), two AMT Automag Vs, or two SMGs, two clips for each weapon, the two bottles of non-lethal poisons, a knife, and my trusty fiber wire; a thick, synthetic, 10 inch fiber rope attached to two handles used for strangulation. Most others in our world carry either this or something similar. The only thing that I _always_ wear is the platinum cross around my neck; it serves as both a reminder for who I really work for, and for the Brothers that raised me –a story that I shall recall another day. Right now, sneaking to the elevator is my primary concern.

I open the door that leads back to the blindingly red hallway, moving slower and quieter. At every turn I pause to peak around corners, checking for other China men with their own laundry to wash. This is always the tricky part because if I'm seen now, they'll want an explanation, and even though I can speak several different languages, Chinese doesn't exactly fall under the 'Fluent in' category. And once more, I'd prefer not to kill anyone else on this little "business" venture.

The continuous, red hallway is empty and the eerie silence is support to this fact. I continue back all the way to elevator with no interruptions. I stand up and brush my self off, flattening the microscopic wrinkles in my jacket. So far so good; no snags or complications. Wait. Oh no; there's some one else already coming _down_. But that doesn't mean anything; they could just be on there way down to the lobby. No, the digital read out shows them stopping on this floor. I turn back, scuttle around the right corner, and crouch down again. Keeping my back to the wall, I remove one CZ-97B .45ACP pistol, screw on a silencer and place it in the right side of my jacket. I hear the chatter of Chinese, meaning that there's more than one person coming out of the elevator. Damn, I wish I didn't have to do this.

The first walks by, turns left and doesn't look back at his friend. The friend, however, turns my way, his cart passing me first…and almost shouts as he spots me. I stand up, and put on my best confused face, but I can tell he sees right through me. "What are you doing here?" he demands, I think. Talk about hotel hospitality. In my best Chinese I say, "I was looking for the hotel restaurant."

"Bullshit, there are posters everywhere that talk about the restraunt and specifically state 'Located in Lobby'. Come on, let's go."

He reaches to me, placing his left hand on my back and the other directly on my other .45. His reaction is immediate, and so is mine. Before he can call to his buddy, I crack him in the jaw with my right elbow, effectively stunning him, while at the same time reaching for the silenced pistol. He drops his head, grabs his mouth in pain, and looks back up at me…just in time as I bring the muzzle across his face, striking him in the temple. He drops like sac of potatoes. I look up to see if the other is away, but find him standing there, eyes open. He blinks once, turns and runs down the hall screaming bloody murder, literally. I level the pistol and fire two successive shot, the first entering just below the right shoulder blade, punching through his right lung and exiting through the other side, leaving a hole the size of a ping-pong ball. The second enters through the back of his head and exits through his right eyeball. He drops as though he's a retard who's just tripped while sprinting. His body twitches as parts of his still working mind try to pull him back up. Total elapsed time –seven seconds.

I inhale slowly through my nose, and exhale slowly through my mouth. I do this for another fifteen seconds or so, to lower the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Finally, I lower the gun and put it back on the inside of my jacket. What should I do with the bodies? I know the first guy should wake up within the next five to ten minutes, but the other is, without a doubt, dead. I guess I'll have to leave 'em here. I quickly pick up the spent bullet casings, grab a small clothe from the nearby cart, and run down the hallway to recover the .45 rounds. Now there are two baffling crime scenes: Arkov's room and this hallway. The only thing about this is that the man I knocked out may have taken a good look at my face. But I doubt that since he saw me for barely a second before I dropped him. I still wish I didn't have to do it. That other man shouldn't have died, but sacrifices must be made sometimes. Makes me wonder when some one will come around and put me out for the sins _I've_ committed. What am I doing; I have to go.

I hit the elevator call button. The elevator arrives, empty. I slip inside the dim elevator car and hit the 'Lobby' button. Next, on my 'to do' list –buy plane tickets. Otherwise, my job here is complete. All in a days work, because I'm a hit man. And I'm Death's Advocate.

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AN-Eh, I don't know if cutting it was such a good idea or not. If you want to see the whole thing as it was before, email me about it. The second part of this chapter will be the other 3000 words and will have more of Wesker and his scheming. Right now, however, it's review time. I don't care if you think it sucks, tell me that it does, and why. Do likewise if you loved if yo 


	3. Riddles

**AN** – I knew this was gonna happen. Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but this one of those boring chapters. I tried to make it interesting but, I think I kinda failed at that. Oh and to those of you who may have been all offended because I have God and all that in the last chapter, I'm sorry. Thanks again to Jarhead and Burningbridges, my only fans (sniffles).

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Chapter 2: Riddles, Riddles, and More Riddles

**Date: Wednesday, May 17, 2006 **

**Location: Unknown**

_Interesting…_ Within the past three days, Wesker had been able to propose a new strain of the T-Veronica. So far they hadn't been able synthesize it, yet, but according to a report from his scientists, they would be able to stabilize and control the way a person mutated, making it possible to make such B.O.W.s, like tyrants, from even the most unqualified of hosts. Like the original T-Veronica, the host would almost, always exhibit some kind of higher intelligence than that of the test subjects for the G and T Virus. However, once injected in to a host, an incubation period wouldn't be required for the virus to acclimate to the host's body, making the strain more efficient than the original. To Wesker, it was some of the best news he could ever hear. But of course, this was all speculation; nothing had been seen, nothing had been tested.

"Mr. Wesker," the nasally voice of his secretary called to him through the intercom on his desk, knocking him from his dreamland perch.

"Yes, what is it?" Wesker demanded, sounding neither angry nor pleased.

"There's some mail for you, sir. According to messenger who brought it, the parcel had been left topside, by the hatch."

Wesker took a second to consider this. Only a select few knew exactly where he was, and knew the methods of delivering such things as mail –real mail. So, it was probably unlikely that he'd been discovered by anyone else. Certainly it wasn't the IRS telling him his taxes were due. _Still in control..._

"Send it in." Wesker sat there for a few seconds, waiting. Then, the sound of a whoosh of air echoed through the dark office. Through a plastic tube protruding from the ceiling came a small capsule. Wesker removed the capsule, popped the top off and removed the content –one manila envelope. Written on the front in bold, permanent marker were the words '**For Mr. Albert Wesker. Info on the Advocate. This is all I could find for now. There's more to it than this. **' Wesker frowned at the message. "_More to it"?_ What could that mean? Did it mean that the information had to be examined while thinking "outside the box"? Or did it just mean more info was on the way? Wesker pushed the thought aside, not wanting to bother with mind games and the terrible way Krauser had phrased the message, and tore the envelope open. Inside was a single piece of paper with several lines of print on it. _Why didn't he just email it to me?_ He shook his head and began to read:

/start/ _On the trail of Death's Advocate, I discovered a man, in a bar located in a bar in Upper Manhattan, who seemed quite jittery at the sound of the name. Naturally, I questioned him. After several minutes of prying he finally gave in, leaving me with just this piece of cryptic information –"I am the one you needed to see first. I believe there are two others that also have information. You must find them in _order_. Otherwise, the results will be a little…confusing. Alright, listen carefully, and take down what I say on that note pad you got there. '_I am a three digit number. My tens digit is five more than my ones digit. My hundreds digit is eight less than my tens digit. What number am I?'_ You got it? Good. I'll even give you a heads up on where to find the next person. Last I heard, he was somewhere in the Caribbean. My guess –Cuba. " Then, before I could stop him, he walked out, only stopping to say, "Remember your answers". I'm sorry, Mr. Wesker, but I didn't have time to think of an answer as you wanted me to deliver information ASAP. _/end/

Wesker leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply as he ran his hand through his hair. "A _riddle_…" he whispered through grinding teeth. He hated riddles, even fairly easy ones like this, because it meant someone else was "behind the wheel". Well, one thing's for sure, he wasn't going to get any closer to finding the Advocate by griping about it.

"Okay. So, 'I am a three digit number'. Self explanatory," He whispered while removing his sunglasses. "'My tens digit is five more than my ones digit'. So the least the ten can be is 5, making the one a 0, or it could be 9, making the one a 4. Next: 'my hundreds digit is eight less than my tens digit'. And that's it, huh?" Wesker groaned. The riddle wasn't a riddle; it was more like a tedious word problem, like those that belonged in the work book of a fifth grader. _Designated to piss off those looking for him; damn this guy! _But if that happened, he couldn't have his job done or, at least, it would take longer. _I'm wasting time._ He picked up the piece of paper and holding it with one hand read the last bit of the riddle over again."Okay, so the hundred has to be at least 1…making the ten a 9, and the one a 4. _194_." Wesker scoffed at the simplicity of it, placing the note on his desk. _Now what?_ He had been told to remember his answer, and to make sure he didn't forget he opened a drawer in his desk and removing a sticky note scrawled '1-194' on it then stuck it to the monitor of his computer. The only thing he had to do now was wait. Standing up, he slipped his sun glasses back on and headed for the door…

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**Date: Thursday, May 18, 2006**

**Location: Unknown**

Wesker smiled as he walked through the gray halls of his hidden compound. At the moment, he was taking a stroll through the only legit part of the base, the part that would manufacture aspirins and chemical cleaners and batteries and other such things. Why? Well, he needed a more…legal way of making money. This also meant he had to change the logo, from Umbrella to something else. So far the best name he'd come up with was _Double Helix Inc_. Why the change in name? When he actually sent the stuff out to the pharmacies, he didn't want people to freak out, tell the government that Umbrella was back and get the shit bombed out of him; He wanted to set up a friendly public front that would serve as lucrative money maker that would provide income for the _real _projects. He had even bought a building topside that would be the public HQ for _Double Helix_ –not _directly_ topside, but in Salt Lake City. As for those who currently worked for him, it had been easy finding some of the old scientists and doctors that wanted to continue research. Then there were the fools that worked here and at Salt Lake City, making things like aspirins and batteries, and taking orders for the stuff. The only thing he needed that couldn't be easily persuaded, or truly wanted to for that matter, was test subjects.

"Mr. Wesker!" Wesker turned and almost had to catch the runner so that he didn't bowl the two over.

"Calm down, son," Wesker ordered, noticing the way the runner was wheezing. He looked him over and noticed the envelope in his hand, but decided to ask him anyway: "What is it you want to tell me?"

"Uh, package for you. Found topside, by the hatch," The runner said in between gasps, and slowly handed him the envelope. Wesker gave small grin and a silent nod of thanks, his sunglasses masking any further facial movements. The runner then took off, returning to where ever he came from. Wesker waited for him to disappear then looked back at the unmarked, manila envelope. Like the previous package, there was message written in bold, black, permanent marker: **For Mr. Albert Wesker. More info. I didn't have time to come up with an answer, sorry. The next one I send should be the last. **_So, _this_ is the next piece of the puzzle –and once again, it's a riddle._ As long as Krauser kept the packages coming then he'd have him within the week. Wesker snorted, and shook his head; he had to admit, Krauser moved pretty fast.

_So, Advocate, what do you have or me today?_ Wesker moved to the nearest wall to lean against it and tore the top off the envelope. Like before the only thing inside was a piece of paper with print –and once again Wesker wondered to himself why Krauser didn't just email it to him. He held the paper close and silently read it to himself:

/start/ _Taking the advice of the man I found in Upper Manhattan, I traveled to Cuba, seeking out the next man. Like before I started by checking local bars. Finally after speaking with a bar tender I was brought up to a secluded room where I met another man. Unlike the first, he seemed quite composed and, even though he never said anything about it, I believe he has utilized the Advocates services before. After looking me over he gave me the information: "So, they tell me you're looking for the Filipino? Oh that's right, they call him 'Death's Advocate' now. Well let me tell you something, hombre, you have to be _smart_ enough to find him. But, considering you found me, I suppose you found the hombre with the first riddle, verdad? Porque' you can't find him without all riddles. But where are my manners? I've taken up quite enough of your time b talking to you. So listen up, and pay attention: '_It cannot be seen, cannot be felt; can not be heard, can not be smelt. It lies behind stars, under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, Ends life, kills laughter. What am I?'_ Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some cigars and pistachio nuts to…ship." And just like the first, I was unable to get an answer from him, as I was being ushered out. He did, however, tell me to look around Nepal for that last person. You should have the last piece by the end of tomorrow._ /end/

"More riddles," Wesker sighed. No doubt the last piece of info would be a riddle as well. He frowned, and shook his head, quickly went over the whole thing again and said, "As annoying as it is, I guess it's worth getting the job done right." Like before, the want to do it himself came to mind, but then was squelched by the even bigger want to work on his latest strain. _The faster I get this done, the faster I can finish my rounds and can return to the labs._ Wesker held the paper closer and reread the riddle.

"'It cannot be seen, it can not be felt.' Okay, no immediate hint there. 'Can not be heard, can notbe smelt.' Once again, no outstanding hints. 'It lies behind the stars, under hills and empty holes it fills.' Now this is something." Wesker brought his free hand to his chin and wrapped his fingers around his lips. "'Behind stars…under hills…empty holes it fills,'" he muttered to himself. At least this was an actual riddle, unlike the first. "Blackness? Eh, maybe. What's next? 'It comes first and follows after. Ends life, kills laughter. _What am I_?'" Wesker stressed the last three words, giving them an ominous air. A person walked by, smiled quickly at him, and continued on their present course. Wesker returned the smile with a quick nod and went back to the riddle. "'Ends life, kills laughter. It comes first and follows after'? Well, blackness doesn't fit anymore, does it? 'Comes first and follows after.' It has to be something like blackness. Maybe it could be time, but that doesn't fit. The only thing it could be, that makes some kind of sense is the dark. _The Dark._" Wesker lowered the piece of paper, sighing in relief. He removed his sunglasses, rubbed his cat-like eyes and placed his sunglasses back on.

_The Dark._ It was so simple, that the answer had completely eluded him. But then again, he wasn't too sure if 'The Dark' was really the answer or not. Even if it wasn't, he still didn't want to think about it anymore. Wesker folded up the piece of paper, placed it in his pocket, and set off to his office to right '2-The Dark' down on his sticky note.

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**Date: Friday, May 19, 2006**

**Location: Unknown**

Wesker stood with hands behind his back, looking through the one-foot-thick observance window. So far the trial with the grizzly bear was going quite well. Official dubbed 'Hk-001', the bear had shed all of its fur making them similar looking to the old zombie dogs. This, however, was the only resemblance. Because of the ability to control the mutations, they had modified the bear to be everything they'd always wanted with the T-virus. They hardened the claws and made them longer and sharper. Like other tyrants, it bore the lipless smile that most tyrant models sported, so that it revealed rows of fearsome teeth. Its nose had been flattened so that it looked like the nose of a human without skin. It sense of smell hadn't diminished because of this, fortunately. On the contrary, it sense of smell was five times more powerful. Wesker's scientists even said that because of already heightened sense of smell, it could pretty much paint a picture with the smells. It even had a slight regenerative ability. Dozens of modifications had been made but the most impressive modification was to the muscles and to the brain itself. It was now three times as strong as it was before, capable of breaking through concrete if need be. They also gave it a fast metabolism so that it wouldn't grow fat; instead it would have bulky muscle. On four legs, it could sprint upwards of 50 miles per hour for a minute. On two legs, it could jog a steady 30 miles per hour. Its heightened sense of balance let it do so. It was also more aware of itself and its surroundings; earlier that day they had set it loose inside forest-like setting with two other bears hunting it. The bear had used tactics –tactics that were considered way too advanced for its mind to effectively separate the two, lure them, and ambush them. It was almost perfect…except it was a bear. Sure the test results said they created a killing machine, no doubts there. But a bear was _already_ somewhat of a killing machine. Wesker wanted to test it out on a human being. If the results were good, _he_ might even take some. _I wonder if I'd be able to take on that bear…_

There was a knocking sound that came from behind. Wesker, and the four other observers, turned around to face the air lock where another runner stood. The runner had just been cleared and was about to call him when Wesker took notice of the manila envelope in his hand and snatched it away. The runner, taken back, just stood there, and then went back through the air lock. The four turned back to watch the Hk-001 tear up another target, but Wesker's attention was now on the envelope. Like before, there were words written in bold ink on the envelope: **For Mr. Albert Wesker. This is the last bit. I'm actually in the compound right now, but I had to make use of your errand boys. **He shook his head; sometimes he had to wonder if Krauser was the best choice for such things. Wanting to save his thinking power for the riddle, he opened the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper sitting within:

/start/ _After meeting with the smuggler in Cuba, I traveled to Nepal in search of the next riddle man. Searching, however, was difficult, since Nepal is a mountainous region capable of hiding those that don't want to be found and I wanted to give it to you by the end of the day. Like before started by searching bars, which is also quite difficult because there are hardly any bars in Nepal. After failing to find the man, I thought that perhaps I was looking for the wrong signs. I started looking for secluded houses, and strange hermits. It was only after a few hours that I found out that I was supposed to be searching for a_ woman_. She had a small hideout several kilometers outside of Pokhara. Her house was nothing spectacular, just something that resembled an Indian longhouse. Inside wasn't so great either; she had a fire pit in the middle, her bed –which was quite comfortable, if you know what I mean –_

Wesker looked up from the piece of paper, a disgusted look on his face. Sure Krauser was working for him, but he hadn't expected him to "go to work". _I'm gonna have to talk to him._ _After this, though. _He gave the line one last look, wondered why Krauser'd go to bed with some weird woman up in Nepal, and continued to read:

…_and a few chairs. The place was quite warm despite the walls looking bare. As for the woman herself, she was this sexy French woman, who hadn't seen a man like me –no offense Albert –in a long time. Regardless, she hadn't let herself go, a plus for me. This is what she had to say: "So you're looking for the Death's Advocate, oui? Hopefully you've already obtained the first two riddles. You do know you can't find him without those – in order. Well, you didn't come here for nothing: _'Thebeginning eternity; the end of time and space; the beginning of every end, and the end of every placeWhat is it?_' You seem like a smart man to have made it this far –can you figure it out?" She wouldn't tell me anything else after that. I tried to get it out of her, but she was fortress .Although, she did say something about using the telephone, but I don't know what she's talking about. _/end/

Wesker blinked. What the hell kind of a riddle was that? There was nothing to go on; to his knowledge every line seemed unrelated. _What does "time and space" have to do with…well…hold on. _Wesker tilted his head, his brow furrowed. They _were_ related, somehow. "Beginning of eternity", "end of time and space", "beginning of the end", "end of every place" –there was a theme. _And it's time._ Maybe. It was quite possible that "time" was a theme, but not necessarily the answer. _But then again "time" is part of the riddle._ Would the Advocate choose such an easy riddle? But then again riddles weren't always as they seemed –that's what made them riddles.

Wesker scratched his head, and then smoothed out the ruffled patch of blonde hair. His mind kept coming up blank when searching for an answer –nothing was making sense anymore. He was almost sure it had to do with time up until he started thinking about it. Time as a theme, let alone an answer, just didn't work. "Thebeginning eternity; the end of time and space; the beginning of every end, and the end of every place," he whispered...unaware of the man standing behind him.

"Oh, I know that one: it's 'E', believe it or not."

"What?" Wesker asked bewilderedly, eye's bulging behind his sunglasses, turning around so fast that he almost knocked the man –Charlie, by his name tag –on the ground. "What?" he asked again, this time a little more relaxed.

"Oh yeah, look: 'The beginning of eternity', eternity begins with an "E", 'The end of time and space', both those end in "E", 'The beginning of the end', "E", 'and the end of every place', once again "E"." Charlie smiled at him, then turned back to the Hk-001 demo. Wesker stood, rooted to the spot, contemplating what had just been revealed to him. _It's "E"? My head almost exploded because of the letter "E"?_

"Hah!" Wesker snorted, a smile breaking the hard features of his face. All riddles had been answered and he was ready. But then all at once his cheerfulness left him. _Now what do I do? What am I supposed to do with the riddles? What was it that the French woman said, use the phone? How does that help?_ Once again, Wesker was thrown into confusion. How was the phone going to help him? _The answers_ he thought. What had been his answers? 194, The dark, and "E"; those were the answers. _Every letter in the alphabet is a number on the phone…yes._ Yes, that's it. 194 was obvious, but with "the dark" and "E" he'd have to figure it out. _No problem, I'll do it when I get to my office. _

He took a step toward the airlock and then froze –within the split second between lifting his foot and putting it down he realized that he did not have the target information. He had _nothing._ "Damn!" Wesker whispered through barred teeth. Would he have to wait another day? _Either that or hope Santa Clause comes down here and shits the information on my feet. _But that wasn't going to happen. No, the only thing he could do now was wait.

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**Date: Saturday, May 20, 2006**

**Location: Unknown**

For the sixth time, Wesker rubbed his tired eyes, content with going sleepless until word came in. According to the little computer clock it was eight in the morning. It wasn't that he actually needed sleep –being inhuman and all –but the boredom of just sitting at his desk was slowly working on him. The moment he reached his desk the night before, he had gone to change the answers in to riddles, coming up with the number 1-948-433-2753. So for next several hours he had nothing to do. He'd played a few games of solitaire on the computer, but in the end it was the same boring shit. So he tried FreeCell, which was basically like solitaire except backwards and it was more challenging. But once again he grew bored, and ended up staring off into the darkness of his office. He was just about to consider playing pinball next until a distinct _ding!_ sounded from his computer.

Wesker was as quick as lightning, grabbing the mouse and opening his email client. Wesker's excitement was killed, however, when he saw that the only thing that had made it to his inbox was an add for porn. _Fucking spam_ he thought as he erased the dirty email. On any other day he might have sneaked a peek, but today was different: today his focus was centered on one thing, and he didn't need a bunch of "barely legals" dancing around his desktop. He leaned back in his chair, and sighed. He _wanted _that info. All night he had been thinking about the call –_I'll ask him to take pictures of them after they die._ It was a shame he wouldn't get to see them die, because after all work _does_ come before play. It was at this time that another _ding!_ rang out from the speakers of Wesker's computer.

Wesker sat up slowly, and taking the mouse in his hand, opened up his mail client –a severe contrast to his actions moments before. Inside the inbox "sat" the new email, one entitled **Something You'd Like to Know**. He hesitated before clicking it, not wanting to be as worked up as he was before only to be let down. But finally this was it. The corners of his mouth stretched upward, a small grin that eventually grew to a wide smile, as he read the message.

"It seems _everyone _lives in Baltimore. I wonder why…" Wesker whispered to the dark._ 'Why' doesn't matter. Call already!_ Almost overjoyed, Wesker grabbed the phone on his desk and dialed. He was ready –he had the information, and was ready to pay whatever price. Three rings later the sound of a _click!_ and then air, came through the ear piece. Then finally a voice broke the silence, one that sounded calm, controlled, and very cold.

"_Now…I'm going to assume that you didn't just call this number on accident, am I correct?"_

"Yes," Wesker replied.

"_Oh, good. So I see you've managed the riddles. You know what that tells me? It tells me you are both smart and desperate."_

"May I ask, why that is desperate?"

"_Because you went through all that trouble to find me, and only me, instead of any one else. So I guess it's also flattering." _There was a hint of admiration and Wesker just knew he was smiling. Somehow, a happy feeling rose up through Wesker…and was suddenly killed when the Advocate –he assumed it was –said, _"But…"_

"But what?" Wesker asked, a little concerned.

"_I have to know whether or not you really are looking for my services. And to make sure I'm giving you exactly one minute to answer one last riddle. If you can't answer it, I'm going to find you."_

Wesker's eyes bulged. _Another riddle?_ No, he wouldn't do it. After mashing his brain the first three times, he could barely answer the question of "How are you?" And there was no way the Advocate could find him; he wasn't even on the map!

"_You ready for this? What goes up, but at the same time goes down, up to the sky and down to the ground, my present tense and my past tense too, let's go for a ride just me and you...what am I? You have 59 seconds…"_

_What the hell…? _What kind of riddle was this? Sure he could eventually answer it, but the key word there was 'eventually'. The thing that bothered Wesker even more was that he seemed to be afraid of what might happen should his time run out. He was so surprised at his own lack of composition, which normally was excellent under any circumstance, that he almost didn't here the Advocate speak:

"_50 seconds. I hope you're thinking."_

_Damn it!_ Wesker thought. _Stop stalling; think! Okay uh, it goes up but goes down –I don't know. Maybe a swing…sort of. No, no, no…_

"_40 seconds." _

_NO…!_ How did he let himself do this? How had he let someone gain the advantage so quickly? Why was he so afraid? _Uh…it goes up and down, has a two word name that consist off a word and it's past tense and two people ride it…_

"_30 seconds."_

_Wait…_ The corners of Wesker's mouth began to twitch. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he was standing near a small playground. The sounds of children playing, laughing and screaming in the summer air, dominated his ears. And there, in front of him was a young boy, seven years old by the looks of it, with blond hair, and a pair of sunglasses that he had stolen from his father resting on his nose. Beside the boy was another, with dark brown hair and freckles all over the bridge of his nose. His name was Sam. He watched the two run to a long plank of wood, which was balanced evenly. The blond boy got on one side, and Sam on the other. And then it began –Sam went up, and the blond boy –little Albert Wesker –went down.

"A see-saw," he whispered to himself.

And then he was back in his office with numbers counting down in his ear.

"…_6…5…4…"  
_"It's a see-saw," answered Wesker, his voice calm and without hesitation.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a small chuckle, _"You are a smart man. Most people can't figure it out so the either hang up or go past the time and end up dead within two weeks."_

_He was going to kill me?_ _How would he do that?_ "I'm a little curious about how you would kill me because I don't think you would be able to find me…"  
_"A lot of people don't. They think because they have all kinds of caller ID blockers and things like that I can't find them. But what they don't realize is that I'm not looking for a particular address or name, I'm looking for coordinates. But don't worry. Now, I know you went through a lot of trouble finding me so let's get down to business. How many individuals do you have?"_

Wesker took a second to think about it. There were only four that he really wanted removed. "Four."

"_Four. Then, by my standard rate, you will pay me 1,200,000 USD, all in advance. That's 300,000 USD per head. I'll give you the numbers later."_

"Costs don't matter to me."

"_What are your reasons? Let me tell you right now that I will not do this just because of some stupid reason."_

Wesker brought his other hand to his forehead, and there it rested. He would have to skew the truth a little, but a skewed truth was better than a lie. He would also have to work up his acting skills to get this. "Three of the four used to be my friends. We were an elite law enforcement team, set out to neutralize a local threat. Then, when things became rough, they left me for dead in the hands of the enemies. I barely made it out. Then after I came back they set out to destroy me and I've been hiding ever since. The other one is the sister on one of them. I was actually hiding in Antarctica when she showed up, and then later her brother. I barely escaped them. And now I'm living in fear." _And the Oscar goes to… _Wesker joked with himself.

There was pause as the Advocate considered and for a moment Wesker was afraid he didn't believe him. Until, _"Okay. Fax me names and locations. Once the job is done you will here from me shortly after."_

Wesker almost couldn't hear what was said to him after that. His revenge would be exact, and he wouldn't have to lift a finger. After another minute or two there conversation was finished. Wesker stood up slowly, stretched, and left his office to go grab a cup of coffee.

* * *

AN- Oh crap. This will probably be my longest chapter. Sorry for all the boredom. Leon will be in the next chapter so don't worry, there's some good stuff coming up. Like always review it. Uh, for that phone number i just made it up so, yeah. 


	4. Something In the Mail

AN –So far so good. This chapter contains a small element from one of Mazzie May's stories, and I have notified her and she has given me permission to use such material. This chapter will be a little shorter than normal, so if you have a short attention span, here you go. Thanks to BurningBridges and Jarhead-where would i be without you two?

* * *

Chapter 3: Something in the Mail

**Friday, March 26, 2006**

**Location: Washington D.C.**

Relaxation was the only thing on Leon Kennedy's mind as he slipped on a navy blue t-shirt. Even though he might be the best agent the Secret Service had ever seen, he still needed some relaxation time. Today would mark the beginning of two week vacation; part of a deal Leon had worked out after saving Ashley, the president's daughter.

After returning from Europe, he was met with a bigger paycheck and was given an almost infinite amount of requests. Being somewhat modest, the only thing that Leon had asked for, as of date, was that he could take time off so that he could spend time with Claire, and Sherry. After about thirty seconds of deliberation, his superior gave him the okay. His vacations were never too long and he always came back early if they needed him. These next two weeks he would be spending in Bavaria with Claire and Sherry. Of course, he couldn't begin his vacation if he was still in the men's locker room.

Finished with changing, Leon grabbed his suit, folded it neatly, and placed it in a small gym bag. _Take it to the dry cleaners today; pick it up tomorrow._ He had just shut his locker when a chorus of laughter echoed of the grayish tiles of the locker room. "Oh no…" Leon muttered, a small grin on his face, "It's Montero again."

Gio Montero –he was, in every sense of the word, a joker. So much so that even some of his superiors had heard of his good humor and began to call him "Agent Joker". But it wasn't some on going thing; no, there were times when he was quite serious –a meeting was some of these occasions. During meetings, he would be stone cold serious, completely focused on the topic at hand. And then for several minutes afterward, he would remain in that serious state. But then he would just revert back to joking again. Leon had never been on an op. with him, therefore couldn't know if he was serious or not during actually ops. _Have fun, Joker. See you in two weeks._

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Leon made for the exit, unaware of what would happen next.

"Hey Leon…" A manly-feminine voice called out to him. Leon spun around, only to turn back, trying to hold his laughter in. Before him stood a half naked Joker, in all his 5'9", Mexican, wonderfulness, wearing a towel past his nipples and another on his head, as if he were a woman. Laughter erupted from the small group of people behind him. Holding in his laughter, Leon simply muttered, "How you doin', Joker?"

"Where were you last night? I was waiting for you for hours!" Joker shouted, looking almost somewhat hurt. A chorus of "Ooohs" came from behind him.

"Well, I was at home last night," Leon answered, truthfully.

"You could have at least called me, you pig!" Joker shouted, attempting to suppress his own laughter and show his anger at the same time. To Leon, it looked like he was sucking on a lemon.

"I was with Claire last night, and that rarely happens with our schedules."

"Well, you know what? You're gonna have to choose between me or Claire," Joker demanded, hands on his hips and tapping his foot. Another

"What, now?" Leon asked, becoming quite irritable.

"YES! RIGHT NOW!"

"Fine, then; I choose Claire, you ugly, she-male, bitch," Leon said. And then he was off, headed for the door, wanting to leave as soon as possible. Joker, however, wasn't finished.

"I thought you loved me! I thought we really connected that one time in the lounge with the jar of peanut butter!" Joker shouted after him.

_Peanut butter, what the fuck? _"Only you're mother could love _you_, Joker." Leon turned to the door, not wanting to discuss anything any longer.

It was cool in the hall way, compared to the mugginess and humidity of the locker rooms. It also smelled better, too. The egg shell white walls also went well with the overhead lighting, as did the steel blue carpet; they both made the light softer to the eyes. But it wasn't the smell, or the light that was bothering Leon, no, it was that feeling that someone was watching him from behind.

Perhaps it was the length of the hallway or because there were no windows to let in any true light. Either way, Leon felt the strange form of anxiety grow as he walked down the long corridor. He couldn't remember when it started, the build-ups of anxiety. He figured they'd begun after his escape from Raccoon City. _No doubt Claire feels the same way.__No doubt _any _of them feel this way. _After Umbrella went under, the feelings had dissipated, a little, but after the mission in Europe, he was all shook up again. True, the feelings of anxiety had dumbed down in the last two years, but he was still being bothered by it –by thoughts of Umbrella and their abominations, and Saddler and Las Plagas. _I just need to forget everything. _Easier said than done, but he was getting there. At the end of the hallway, Leon turned a corner and the feeling of anxiety disappeared.

He now stood in the main atrium, looking down from a balcony, being on the second floor. Leon looked up, through the big windows, checking the weather outside. _Raining. Dang._ He was so focused on the rain that he barely missed the UPS man run inside and almost slip on the marble floor.

"Those marble floors can be dangerous," a voice said from behind.

"Hmm…?" Leon looked around to see Joker and his small company behind him. _Didn't I just leave this party?_ "What do want?" Leon asked, heading for the elevators, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Oh come on, don't be that way," Joker said as the elevators opened.

"Then stop messing with me. Go play with your buddies," Leon said as he, Joker and his three companions walked in to the elevator. Once inside, Leon hit the **Lobby** button, and positioned himself right in front of the door so he could be the first one out. That's when the snickering started. Leon let out a long sigh. "What's so funny now?"

"Can I ask you a question?" Joker asked, the elevators reopening to the Lobby.

"What?" Leon asked, stepping out of the elevator.

"Did you forget to dye your hair this month, or did they just run out of the stuff?" Joker asked, chuckling,

Leon frowned. He was hoping that no one would notice. He'd gone about a week from the last time he was _supposed_ to dye his hair. But like before, the store he'd been going to had gone out of stock. _They probably saw the dark roots in the elevator. DAMN IT!_ The least Leon could do was shut Joker up.

"You do _know_ that I am something of your superior, right?" Leon asked, turning around to face him.

"…What?" Joker asked, being caught off guard by the question.

"So that means two things: one, I could write a report to have you transferred outta here…"

"You're gonna write a report?" Joker asked, almost mocking him.

"…Or I could kick your ass all up and down this building without anyone giving so much as a double take." Leon stared into the eyes of the Joker, and for a minute they stared each other down until Joker "surrendered".

"Fine then, kill-joy." And he walked off. The other three just smiled at Leon, and then caught up to Joker.

Feeling a sense of self accomplishment, Leon strolled off toward the Parking Garage Elevators before being stopped by the woman at the front desk.

"Mr. Kennedy?" she called to him.

Leon grimaced. Being called "Mr." was still an odd thing to him. "Yes?"

"A package came in for you."

"Oh really? From who?" He asked as the woman handed him the small package. Leon's blood turned to ice as he found the sender's name on it. "Ada…" he whispered.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked.

"Oh, nothing," Leon assured. But obviously there was something.

What had Ada sent and why did she send it? Such questions wandered through Leon's mind as he walked to the Garage elevators.

* * *

A.N.You know what to do. Review it please be constuctive. I'd like to know how I may improve it. 


	5. Blinded By the Light

AN-Alright, time to carry on. Sorry it's taken me awhile –I've been a little distracted lately with other things, like school, football and my own personal health. Jarhead and Burningbridges…I love you guys, really. **Jarhead**: Don't worry about the whole Ada-Leon-Claire, thing; I just put that in there for an excuse for something to happen in this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 4: "Blinded by the Light"

**Date: Saturday, May 27, 2006**

**Location: Baltimore, Maryland**

**----------------------------------------------------**

"_BLINDED by the LIGHT; Revved up like deuce, another runner in the night!"_ Chris Redfield sang, hot water running over his body. Life was good. It was still a feeling Chris was still getting used to after being shaken up eight years ago. Now he'd forgotten mostly everything from that year, with one exception –the fight he never finished with Wesker. If he ever got chance to finish it, he'd take it, any time, any where. Over the years, however, the whole thought of finishing the fight with Wesker had drifted to the back of his mind. He had other things that he thought about now, like finishing the payment on his new car, what President Bush was doing, and until recently his cable service had gone to crap. But being that it was 8 o'clock in the morning, he had 16 more hours of the day to worry about such things. _Now where was I? Oh yeah…_

"_Madman drummers, bummers, Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat;  
In the dumps with the mumps, as the adolescent pumps his way in to his hat._

_With a boulder on my shoulder, feelin kinda older, I tripped the marry-go-'round,_

_And with this very unpleasin, sneazin and –_WHOA!"

Chris jumped back in surprise as the white shower curtains were ripped back revealing a slightly annoyed Jill. She was still in her sleeping clothes, and her arms were crossed over her slender body. He watched as she stole a quick glance at his junk before looking him in the eye and saying, "Chris, shut up." For the next 15 seconds, the two just stared at each other, the water splashing about in the shower, and the light reflecting off the gold bands around their ring fingers. Jill finally broke the silence using a more serious tone: "Did you call the cable company?"

"Hon, I did that last week! I told you already, they're coming by today."

"Really?" Jill asked sarcastically.

"Yes!"

"Well, okay. And as long as you're still showering, may I join you?" Jill asked in a sultry voice.

It was about 30 minutes later and Chris was now alone in kitchen, making French toast, silently wishing James would've slept longer. The boy had woken himself up and like most three-year-olds sought the company of his parents. But after failing to find his parents in their room, he began to grow worried, and called out for them, hoping that they hadn't abandoned him. And like most mothers, Jill heard her son's call long before Chris did. "Do you hear that?" She'd asked him, "Your son is looking for us." She had stepped out of the shower, and dried herself off, quietly saying, "Maybe another time."

_Another time, indeed._ Chris turned the stove top off and place two slices of the French toast he'd been making on each of the three plates on their mahogany dining table. Having finished the morning preparations, Chris poured himself a glass of juice and headed for the glass door that lead out back to the wooden deck. He made his way to the edge so that he was facing the forest behind him. For a while he stood there, sipping his juice, pondering what the day would bring him. First of all, the cable company was coming by. But, more importantly Leon and Claire would be coming by as well, Sherry most likely in tow, and Barry would make a stop too. Apparently Leon had something he wanted to share with the rest of them. _Whatcha got, Leon? Is my sister pregnant? _Even if she was, that wouldn't be such a bad thing: Chris wasn't really bothered that he may become an uncle because he already was –in a way –with Sherry, nor was it that Leon was his brother in law, no; the thing that bothered him was the thought that someone had "touched" his sister "that way". It was just one of those things that made one shiver, or cringe at the thought –something like seeing your mom and dad in bed together for the first time, one of those _odd_ things.

"Daddy?" a small voice called him. Chris turned to see the boy standing behind him, a slight look of worry on his face. Chris smiled at his son and picked him up, ruffling his dark hair. The boy's face instantly lit up. "Are you gonna…are you gonna eat breakfast with us?" Chris looked past his son to the door way where Jill waited, her slender body leaning against the door frame. He then looked back to his son, still eagerly awaiting his answer.

"Sure. Come on, your mother is waiting for us."

----------------------------------------------------

The Redfield house looks very nice from this vantage point; the light blue siding is complemented wonderfully with white trim and the dormers on the second floor make the house all that much better. From here I can see the entire back of the house including the deck and back yard. Of course, all already knew all this having watched Mr. Redfield the whole week. There were a few discrepancies with the original report I was given; first off, Mr. Redfield is married, and has one child –neither the wife nor child were originally listed with his information. The second thing is his wife; his wife is Jill Valentine –or, rather –Redfield, due to certain events.

Like Mr. Redfield, Ms. Valentine…Mrs. Redfield, was also a target on my hit list and was supposed to be single. If these two people are as cunning as my employer says they are, then I should have quite a difficult time eliminating both. My primary focus is on them, for the moment. Once they're gone I can move on the other two –Barry Burton and Claire Redfield. Fortunately for me, they all live in Baltimore.

There are two reasons I haven't been able to remove Mr. and Mrs. Redfield; one is that the two are both in law enforcement, which is odd for two people who would just abandon a friend in need. This makes it hard to take them out when they're at work, seeing as it's difficult to just walk into a police station and discretely kill people, both of whom are surrounded by their comrades, can defend themselves, and will most likely stick near each other. The other reason is their son, James I believe.

No matter what evils they may have committed, had I known they had a child I would've never taken the job. Problem is, I have to do it –I ask for all money in advance, and I can't just turn around and tell my employer I can't do it, it's just not how this business works. Oh Lord, help me…a child should never have to grow up without their parents. I know; I had to experience it…

I let out a sigh of deep frustration, and then slap in the box magazine for the FR F2 sniper rifle. "Sorry, Chris," I say aloud, flushing out all other thoughts that may hinder my abilities. I position myself so that I don't have to work too hard to not fall out of the tree I'm in. It should be an easy kill; 100 meters isn't a far distance, I should be able to put one through his forehead with ease –that is, if he comes outside for the morning. This past week, while observing I've noticed that most mornings come outside with a cup of something or will sit down on a patio chair and read the newspaper. Then his wife will come out and call him in. If it everything goes right, once Mr. Redfield is down, his wife will come out, and I'll have both of them crossed off my list before noon. And here he is now.

I watch as he takes a step out on to his deck, this time a cup of orange juice in hand. He moves toward the edge, toward the railing, now facing my general direction. If he only knew… I place his head inside the scope, the crosshair dancing around the top of his forehead. I inhale deeply and hold it, steadying the crosshair just above his hairline. "Do it," I whisper to myself, my finger lightly squeezing the trigger, "just do it." If it was any other person, without a child, this would be the easiest kill of my career. I let go of the trigger and pull myself away from the scope, cursing the uncertainty my mind is giving me. Why did he have to have a child? If he was childless, well then of course this would be an easier task. But that's just wishful thinking on my part. Stop stalling.

I look down the scope again, this time my mind truly clear. He now has his back to me; he probably hears someone –his wife –approaching, so I've got to make this quick. I squeeze the trigger, slowly applying pressure to the small piece of metal –I can almost feel the hammer slipping. He bends over real quick, as if picking up something –no. Once again I let go of the trigger, but continue to look through the scope. In his hands is his son –the boy is facing me now…and he appears to be looking _at_ me. It's as if he's silently pleading to me not to do it. Well guess what, James? You've won, for now. I can't risk killing the boy; I will not kill the boy, purposefully or accidentally, nor will I expose his young, innocent mind to a world as dark as mine. Like I said, I had to experience it.

I continue to watch until Chris disappears in to the confines of his house. I place the rifle in my lap and hold my head in my hands, seriously contemplating my next move. I've just blown what the biggest opportunity of the day –what would've been the easiest kill of my career now becomes the biggest mistake I've ever made. But was it really a mistake? Many others in my world would think so. Regardless of what I did or didn't do, I probably won't get another chance like that until Monday –I never work on Sundays. But I can't wait two days; if there's anything I know about this business it's this, always do everything ASAP –don't keep the employer waiting, it just get's them angry and sometimes you end up dead because of it. No, I won't wait 'til Monday, nor will I do it tomorrow –there's another way…

With my mind made up, I take care with the rifle in hand as I climb out of the tree.

-----------------------------------------------

"Come on…!" Chris groaned as the Yankees hit yet _another_ homerun. It was now 1 pm and at the top of the fifth, the Yankees leading the Orioles 7 to 2, zero outs for the inning. It wasn't that the Orioles were losing to the Yankees; actually Chris could've of cared less if it was some other team that was losing. The only reason he was angry was because the Yankees were _winning._ Chris despised the Yankees, because they were so great. He was one of those people that normally detested things that most people loved, particularly the Yankees. He'd hated them as a child and so decided to pass this hate on down to his child.

"Look, James," Chris said pointing out the runner rounding second to his son, "He's bad, and we don't like him. Right?"

"No!" the boy quickly responded, smiling cheek to cheek.

"That's my son –," Chris was about to say before Jill strolled in, a folder in hand and a slight scowl on her face.

"Why are you brainwashing our son?" She question before sitting down on the couch on the opposite side of the medium sized living/TV room.

"I'm not! It's just…does it really matter?" Chris asked trying to find an alternate route, a slight smirk on his face.

Jill tilted her head, and stared him down, giving a small effort to intimidate him. It wasn't working. She softened her gaze, finally saying, "Stop it."

Chris' smirk turned in to a smile, which quickly left his face once Jill gave him the evil eye. James grabbed him in terror. "Mommy's scary, isn't she?" Chris mused. Chris felt his son's face nod against his body and watched as Jill rolled her eyes. Chris shook his head and went back to watching the game, until the doorbell rang.

"Come on, boy, let's see who it is," Chris said, standing up and exchanging a quick glance with Jill. _Hopefully I won't have to pay for any of this later._ Hopefully; Jill could be a very a frightening person at times, but then again, she was a _woman_. Chris gingerly turned his back to her, before exiting and heading to the front door, the boy at his heels.

Chris looked through peephole, briefly, before letting in the visitors. "Auntie Claire!"

"Hey!" Claire said, bending down to give her nephew a hug, Chris taking a step back. Behind her stood a content looking Leon, a small box in his hand. Chris gave him a quick pat on the back, Leon doing the same before whispering, "Hey Chris, you got any beer? Your sister won't let me drink at home." Chris shook his head at this.

"Don't worry, I'll hook you up later," Chris said with a laugh. By now, Jill had joined them, stepping up to give Sherry, who had been standing behind Leon, a quick hug.

"This where the party at?" boomed a voice from outside. The Chris, along with everyone else, looked outside to see the big figure of Barry Burton walking towards the front door. "Nice place you got here, Redfield." The men shook hands, and the women gave hugs, and finally they walked back to the living room where Leon placed the contents of the box on the living room coffee table.

"Go on upstairs and play, bud, we have grown up stuff to do," Chris told his son before sitting down on one of the sofas.

"So what is this, Leon? Is this what you brought us here for?" Chris asked, jumping straight to business. What was that _thing _in the vial? And –_Holy crap is it moving?_

Leon's joking demeanor changed to one of solemn. Slowly, he picked up the vial and stared at it, not moving, as if trying to gather his thoughts. And then, "I never told you guys what happened in…when I went to Europe, did I?"

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd tell us," Claire said, incredulously.  
"Wait, you went to Europe?" Barry asked, obviously unaware of certain events. Chris chuckled under his breath.

"Yeah, remember when Graham's daughter went missing? Guess who they chose to get her back. Yeah –me. I, uh…" he paused, and dropped his head, as if a sudden terrible memory had resurfaced in his mind. When he looked up, there was a look of overwhelming exhaustion upon his face, like he'd suddenly aged twenty or thirty years, and Chris instantly knew something had happened. It was a look anyone of them knew, they'd all seen. The first time Chris had seen it, he'd just returned from the Spencer Mansion and was looking in a mirror.

Leon shook it off, attempting to retell the story again, until he was interrupted by the door bell.

Jill shot a glance at Chris who immediately stood, apologized and made for the door. Once again he looked through the peephole only to see a short, Asian fellow, lean looking, and wearing a silver-ish cross around his neck. _Oh good; it's the cable guy _Chris thought as he opened the door.

* * *

AN –I don't like it. It just doesn't seem right to me. I've tried to redo it a few times at no matter what I do, it just comes out the same way. All I hope is that my next chapters are better. 


	6. Revelation

AN-Right. Sorry about the wait. School is killing me and I needed to take a break from writing to clear my head. I also kinda left it at my grandparents' house so yeah. This chapter has lots of dialogue, so if you're not used to it, sorry.

New AN-Uh, i had to repost this because i realized, i had to fix the ending. Nothing else has been changed.

**Disclaimer**: Wow, when's the last time I had one of these? Maybe I'll make it all official next chapter.

* * *

Chapter 5: Revelation

**Same Day…**

----------------------------------------

The door opens, and standing there is none other target number 1 –Chris Redfield. Looking at him now, I notice the differences between his face and his picture, further confirming that the info I was given is outdated.

"Uh, are you, uh…Chris Redfield?" I ask, playing the part of the clueless cable man.

"Yeah, that's me," he half whispers. He smiles at me and slowly nods his head at me, while I continue to silently assess if I can pull this off. After another minute he laughs before saying, "Oh, I'm sorry! Come in."

I step inside as he slowly shuts the door behind me and instantly I hear other voices. "Is something going on? I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Oh no, no, don't worry about it. Just means we won't work in the living room," he whispers. I nod my head in agreement. I wouldn't want his friends barging in on my…work. "Come on, I'll show you around."

I follow him from the foyer to the spiraling stair case on the left. The stairs are carpeted, compared to the hardwood of the foyer and the walls are painted with a dark, relaxing orange color. Upstairs, the walls are also orange. He moves down a short hallway leading to large loft with one of those old giant screen TVs. Speakers are scattered around the room, making this the perfect entertainment room.

"So what seems to be the problem?" I ask. He gives me a small quizzical look, and that worries me. Why? Because that look is always associated with at least two feelings –suspicion and confusion, the bad kind of confusion.

"I told you guys, didn't I?" He asks, tilting his head to one side.

"Oh, right. Sorry, my mistake. Must've slipped my mind. Uh…" Damn it; I lied. If there's anything that can get you killed faster it's lying. I've it seen before. Reaching into my back pocket I retrieve a small notepad that originally belonged to the man whose clothes I'm wearing. Written are the words '**not receiving all channels**' and '**check cable box and connections –in and out**'. "So, you're not getting all the channels you've subscribed to?"

"Nope."

"Well first of all, have you paid this month?"

At this he smirks at me, which once again makes me nervous. "Wow, you sound just like my wife: 'Honey? Are you _sure _you paid the bill?'" He says in a joking manner. I give a small chuckle at this. I don't understand it; everything about this job feels wrong, like the real crime would be to kill this man, his wife and the other two. This is it then; my last job ever.

"Hello?" The sound of his voice brings m back from my wanderings. I've got to focus on the here and now.

"Oh, yes. So, have you checked the connections?" I ask.

"No, not really."

"Ah. Okay. So let's get behind this TV and see if anything is loose."

We both work together to pivot the TV to one side so we can get behind. Once behind I tell him to get a good look at it. He Crouches down, his back toward me, presenting me my window of opportunity. Quickly I reach for my fiber wire and stretch it tight. Holding it high above his head, I bring it down…just as he turns around.

The wire ends up go around the back of his neck, and for a second he gives me confused look before realizing my true purpose. From the ground he lunges at me, tackling me to the floor, sending my wire flying across the room. He lands on top of me and straddles me, looks me dead in the eye and hooks the right side of my face. Pain erupts from my right cheek, but I struggle to ignore. He hooks again, but this time I catch him and throw him off. Now I'm standing, reading to fight. He rolls, and then stands, putting his fist up in front. I've never bare-knuckle boxed anyone before, but I'm ready regardless. He charges at me, jabs left, right, then tries to hook me again. Catching his hook leaves him open for a second. With my free hand I jab his face, feeling his nose crush under my fist. He cries in pain, backs off and clutches his now broken and bloody nose.

He comes at me again and once more we dance, bruising and cutting and beating each other senseless. He backs away. I hear my heart beating in my ears, and can taste copper in my mouth. My breaths are heavy and sweat is coating my body. He stares me down, and I, him, until I notice he's not looking at me anymore, but at something at my feet. It's my fiber wire! I can here the sounds of rushing footsteps so I have to be quick. I bend down to grab the wire, and look up just to see him charging me again. Just as he reaches me I take a step out of the way, swing the wire to loop it around his neck, grab both ends and pull. Instantly he grabs at the wire, while I put my knee in his back for leverage. I can hear him choking and sputtering, attempting to breath but failing.

And then I'm surrounded.

His friends show up, and are now blocking the only obvious outlet I have and are slowly advancing on me. I loosen my grip on him, just enough, so that I can still restrain him without killing him. Oh how I hate to look a like terrorist.

"Back off," I nearly shout, "Or Mr. Redfield dies." Like it matters. Either way, I'd have to kill him.

"The hell you will!" The big, burly man, Barry, says. He pulls out a revolver, some sort of magnum, and trains it on me. The blond-ish fellow does the same.

And so the drama unfolds before me. The one who I believe is Jill begins to shout out the two men, telling them to put their guns down. The other two women stand there, the blond one holding on to who I believe is Claire. Claire shouts at me, her sister in law, and the other two men.

This is taking too long.

I slowly increase the tension on the wire, putting my knee harder into his back. Once again he gags and chokes.

"Let him go right now or I'll blow your head off!" Barry shouts, but I ignore. He wouldn't shoot me at the risk of killing Chris. Plus he'd probably shoot me if I let go anyway. I can feel Chris submitting, feeling him becoming limp. It's almost over. And then I see _him_…

"Mommy? What is that man doing to daddy?" a small voice asks. There, standing just behind his mother is little James, looking both tired and confused. My hearts stops as I stare into the boy's eyes. Suddenly it's as if no one else exists –the only people on the room are the boy and I. Before me stands a picture of innocence –like snow that has fallen, and has yet to be touched. His eyes quickly roam over me, and finally stop at my eyes. What does he see? Quickly his gaze becomes heavier, and heavier. I can literally feel the pressure against my whole body. I'm scared, and I don't know why…But I do know why. It's not just the boy looking at me any more –it's Him. He is judging me. He is letting me know what I have done. These people aren't the ones who are evil; it's _me_.

I come out of the trance and lower my knee, dropping the wire and lowering my head in the process. Chris stumbles forward and gasps, putting his hands on his knees. These people are good people. I should have never…

An explosion of pain shoots from my left temple, causing my vision to fog. The next thing I see is Chris standing over me. And now, nothing.

-----------------------------------

Ten minutes later… 

"Ow," Chris said with a hiss as Jill dabbed at his cuts with an alcohol-wipe.

"So, he just attacked you?" Claire asked.

"Yeah. I had my back turned to him. And when I –ow –turned back he tried to strangle me."

"But now he's out cold. Why couldn't you do that before?" Barry asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Because he surprised me…and he's really good."

"So now what? What are we gonna do with him?" Jill asked, gently dabbing at another one of Chris' cuts.

"We should question him first and turn him in afterward." Leon suggested.

Chris just nodded his head in agreement. He had plenty of questions that he wanted to ask. Who was he? Why did he try to kill him? Did he have an employer? Chris stopped at that. _An employer? There's only one man that would really want me dead this badly. _As he thought, he stared across the room, at the Man that had tried to kill him. After he'd knocked him out, they'd tied him up to chair. All they were doing now was waiting for him to wake up.

Chris continued to focus on him, watching the way his head rose and fell with every breath. He couldn't believe how close he'd come to death, again! It was almost enough to jar those dormant thoughts that he'd suppressed so long back to life. The man's head twitched, and then finally rose to show that he was awake. Everyone else quickly took notice. Leon and Barry trained their guns on him again. If he tried anything funny, he knew they'd blow his brains out. The man looked around, first surveying Leon and Barry, then himself, and then the three women. His gaze was then brought back to Chris.

Their eyes locked, each staring each other down as if daring the other to blink. Chris could only imagine what was going through the man's head at the moment. He also found that he had very hard eyes, yet they were sad in a way. The two continued to stare only until The Man spoke first: "Was it you that knocked me out?"

His voice was cold, too.

Chris simply nodded. He was ready to talk to his would-be killer.

"It was an amazing hook. I half thought I died." Whether or not the Man was being sarcastic Chris would never know. The Man continued, "If you want to torture me, or interrogate me, go ahead, because I won't tell you anything –or, rather –I can't." Now this didn't make sense at all.

"What the hell you talkin' about?" Barry asked, seeming as confused as Chris was.

The man gave an irritated look at Barry before turning back to Chris. "The thing is I don't know what to tell you because I've never been caught before."

_Never? Is he really that good?_ As he began to wonder, he looked up at Barry, and noticed how irritable he seemed.

Then Barry, in an almost shouting voice, said, "Yeah, well, regardless of your personal record, you've been caught now. Just answer our questions an we won't hurt you –"

"Barry! Calm down," Leon said, shooting him a partial evil eye. And the interrogation had begun.

----------------------------------

**One hour later…**

They'd grilled him, asking every question they could think of: What's his name? What's his motive? Who's his employer? All these questions and more they asked. Apparently, he had no name, besides the assassin nick-name "Death's Advocate" or the older "The Filipino", and also that Chris wasn't the only target either. Besides him, Jill, Barry, and even Claire were scheduled to die, making it all too clear who'd hired the assassin.

"It's gotta be Wesker," Barry said at this.

"You have an idea of who my employer is?"

"Nah, we _know_ who your employer is," Leon answered.

"And you got your story wrong too. _He _betrayed_ us._ If Chris hadn't found me that night…I probably would've gone up with the rest of that hell hole…" Jill said, trailing off at the end. Chris stared down at the floor wondering why –_after all these years, why suddenly come back to kill us? What are you planning?_

As they continued to talk, other details began to arise about DA, himself.

"I knew I never should have taken this contract."

"You got that shit right," Barry scoffed.

"I never would've taken the contract if I knew one very important detail: that you had a son."

"And why's that," Chris wondered aloud.

The Advocate looked thoughtfully back at him, as if trying to remember what to say. Finally he said, "Back in '95, when Umbrella was still on top, I was offered a contract on one of their chief scientists, Birkin." Chris turned toward the source of a small gasp and fond Sherry huddled up next to Claire. She looked up and quietly asked, "But you never took the job, right?"

"Right, I didn't for two reasons. The first reason was because I was told he had a wife, and I dreaded making the woman widow. But that that all changed when I was told she was a target, too. And I would've gone on with it, too…except for the other, bigger, reason –that from Birkin's loins, there was a child, a 10-year old daughter. As soon as I heard this, I dismissed the person contacting me. And I would've done the same for you, Redfield, had I known."

A staggering silence followed the Advocates last words. Chris glanced around, first looking at Sherry and the odd look on her face. _She's probably wondering about how much sooner she could've lost her family. _He then glanced to Barry. He had lowered the magnum, and also had a look of intense concentration upon his face. _Wondering about what would happen to his family. _

"What, do the kids have to do with it?" Barry asked softly, breaking the silence. The Advocate's face became dark and his face fell to the floor, as if in deep thought. When he looked up, a deep sigh escaped his lips. His face held a look of nostalgia, and his eyes seemed to stare off toward somewhere distant. Finally, he shook his head, and quietly spoke out, "the answer to that question has no relevance to this situation." No more came from the Advocate. Chris sighed, as he looked toward Barry, expecting some sort of out burst. Surprisingly enough, Barry didn't utter a word. With that brief moment of tenseness over, Chris focused back on Wesker.

He had to be planning something, Chris knew it. Why else would Wesker want the four of them in particular dead? He had to be planning something and figured that they would try to stop him again. _Well, you've failed, Wesker. _Chris looked back at the Advocate. He looked tired, and old –no longer hard, and cold. _Never again will you manipulate us or anyone else for your own sick games. NEVER!_

Quickly, he stood up, and, looking over everyone, said, "We gotta do something about Wesker. He's gone too far this time."

"He's _been_ going too far," Claire commented. No one in the room could deny that.

"I don't know what he might be planning, but it sure as hell ain't gonna work," Chris said, a small fire burning in his eyes.

"So what are we gonna do, then?" Leon asked.

A smirk appeared on Chris' face. "I'm gonna make it easier for him: I'm going him."

"Except..." The sound of the Advocates voice wiped the smirk from Chris' face. "You don't know where he is."

"And you do?" Chris asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes; I do."

* * *

AN-BAM! I did it. You know what to do. 


	7. We Were All Innocent Once

AN- I'm sorry to say this is going to be another slow chapter. It's a bit lighter than normal, actually. In this chapter we get to know the Advocate and the hit man underworld a little more. Then afterwards, the effect of Wesker's dastardly deeds on the surrounding community (yes, he's doing that old Umbrella bit again). And now for my officially official disclaimer.

Disclaimer –All characters, things, events and places that are related to Resident Evil trademarks and property of Capcom. All other characters and certain places are works of my imagination. Any resemblance to any persons alive or dead is a complete coincidence. I also happen to own the plot as well. For more information see _Copyright Act_.

* * *

Chapter 6: We Were All Innocent Once…

Date: Wednesday, May 30, 2006

Location: Sky Pass, Colorado

------------------------------

Chris stared out the window of the small diner, taking a good look at the small city. _I hate this place._ The feeling in his gut testified to that. The feeling had started out small as they had reached the edge of the town, and had grown larger as the passed through. At first he thought it was just a bit of indigestion from the food they had eaten while aboard the small charter plane. But now he understood what it was and why it was happening. The feeling was apprehensiveness –fear –and as to why he felt that way, it was because the city was exactly like Raccoon.

It too was a quiet, mountain town (although more up in the mountains) and, from what he'd seen so far that day, was complete with small homes, small schools, and its own little collection of local-only restaurants and shops. _That's why I won't let this place turn into a second Raccoon..._

"Mr. Redfield, are you alright?" The voice of the Advocate brought him back from his thoughts.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine," Chris answered, turning his gaze first on the Advocate, and then down towards his cup of coffee. "And stop calling me 'Mr. Redfield', okay? Sounds weird…sounds like my dad..."  
"So what do you propose I call you then?" The Advocate asked, taking a sip from his own cup.

"Chris is just fine," Chris answered, waving hand as if to dismiss the issue. "But what about you? Am I just supposed to call you 'the Advocate' all the time? Or 'DA'?"

The Advocate put his own cup down and wiping his mouth he simply responded, "Whatever suits you, Chris."

For the next few minutes they sat in silence, both taking a second or two to take a sip of coffee. In a way, he was glad he had someone with him, someone who could back him up while they faced the horrors of this new Umbrella. Originally, he wanted to go by himself, so as not to put anyone else in danger. Plus, he had his own score to settle. However, because he didn't know where to begin looking, and the Advocate _did_, it was arranged that the man who had previously tried to kill him would become his new best friend.

"So, what's it like?" Chris asked, breaking the silence, attempting a conversation. "What's it like being a…being a hitman?"

The Advocate lifted his head up from his coffee and gave Chris a somber look, slightly reminiscent of the look he'd given when they'd asked him about the children. A minute passed, then another -Chris was beginning to think that he was ignoring him until the Advocate finally said, "It's lonely, actually."

"...Huh?" Chris asked, frowning.

"Judging by your reaction, I'd guess you were expecting something different..."

"Well, yeah," Chris said incredulously. "I mean...you're a hitman!...oh right, sorry," Chris apologized, remembering that they weren't exactly in private company. In a quieter voice he continued, "yeah, don't you have those secret connections with agencies or secret contacts in other countries or...or..."

Chris stopped. The Advocate was smiling at him.

"What?" Chris asked, nervously.

"I like your enthusiasm," the Advocate said, his voice slightly lighter than Chris had heard the whole time they'd been together. "But your wrong. For one, Idon't have those secret connections, and I don't belong to an organization, either -most of us don't."

"But...they exist?" Chris asked, almost hopefully.

The Advocate gave him a look, before saying, "Does this sort of thing excite you?"

"A little," Chris admitted. "I used to watch a lot of the James Bond movies."

"I see. And this is what influenced you to be a cop?"

"Eh...mostly that," Chris shrugged.

"Right," the Advocate said, going for his coffee.

"But what about you?"

The Advocate slowed, before finally picking up his cup. "What do you mean?" He asked, slowly. "Why am I a hitman?"

Chris nodded. "Yeah. I mean you don't just watch a movie and decide you want to be a hitman, right?"

"...right," the Advocate murmured.

And there it was again - "the Look" as Chris had dubbed it.

"What is it?" Chris asked.

"It's nothing..." DA assured, but Chris wasn't buying it. _Yeah, right. This is the third time you've done this, man. I know you're hiding something from me..._And Chris called him out on it.

"You think I'm hiding something?" The Advocate asked calmly. Chris only nodded. "Hmm –and you won't leave me alone."

"Nope," Chris said, smirking. He leaned back in his seat, casually folding his arms across his chest.

An audible _click!_ was heard from underneath the table, causing Chris' body to tense, and his eyes to widen.

"I guess I could just kill you," The Advocate whispered, slowly.

"Whoa, whoa –wait a minute! I-I-I-I thought we, uh…you said you wouldn't –you couldn't kill me!" Chris hissed back.

The Advocate stared at him for a few more seconds before a second click was heard.

"You're right," the Advocate said. "Besides, you should have seen the look on your face." Chris breathed a sigh of relief. _It was a _joke_?! Shit! I don't know what to expect anymore…_

"Do you still want to know what's on my mind?" The Advocate asked, disturbing Chris from his thoughts.

"If you're not gonna threaten me anymore, sure."

The hitman smirked. "Well like I said, Chris, it's not that important," the man said, his gaze trailing towards the window. Chris followed it, only to find that what he was looking at was a child with his parents. "You see," the Advocate began, "It's about this boy..."

-------------------------------------

"…_that's stupid!"_

"_Hey don't say the 's' word! -it's a bad word!"_

"_Why? My older brother says it all the time."_

"_Well, your brother's bad! Doesn't your mom get mad at him?"_

"_A little…"_

_The two seven-year-olds continued to talk, both lying underneath a large tree. It was late summer's afternoon, and most of their friends had already left the park. _

"_What's that one place on TV? That place that they keep talkin about?" The first boy asked._

"_I forget-" the second boy confessed_

"_You know –that one we have a war with?"_

"_Oh! My daddy told me about that! It's called um…uh –Vetnam!" The second boy exclaimed._

"_Isn't it called V_i_etnam?" The first boy wondered._

"_No, I'm pretty sure it's called Vetnam," The second reassured._

"_Oh…" The first boy said sadly. Some time passed before the first started talking again. "My brother got one of those letters. He's gonna go there."_

_The second sat up and looked over at his friend._

_He was only six, but he still had a pretty good idea of what was happening. Lots of they're friends' brothers and dads had already got letters. They were being sent to Vetnam to fight. The other day they found one a friend of theirs crying by herself. Upon asking what was wrong, she said that her mom got a letter from a guy in a uniform the day before. The letter was different, but different wasn't necessarily better –her dad was dead. The next day she didn't come to the park._

"_You're lucky," The first boy said. "Your dad works for Umbrella -people that work there don't get sent to Vetnam." _

_The second boy shifted his gaze to his feet, remembering that the other boy's dad had already been sent a while back. _

"_Just pray that your dad and your brother come back," The second said, trying to be supportive._

"_We do –everyday at dinner…which reminds me," The first boy stood up, the second following suit. The boys looked up into the sky and then around the park, noticing that for the first time it was pretty late and that they were the only ones there. _

"_Uh oh…" The second began.  
"I think we should go home," the first said, a little worriedly. He took off at a speed only a six-year-old could have called fast. "SEE YA TOMORROW!" He shouted while running._

"_YOU TOO! WE'LL PRAY FOR YOU!" the second shouted back. He watched as his friend disappeared from view, and, feeling rather hungry and tired, began to head home too._

------------------------------

"Sorry for the wait; we're kinda busy today guys," the waitress says to us, interrupting my story.

"Thanks," Chris says to her, then turns back to me. "So what were you saying?"

"Why don't you just eat Chris, I'll tell the rest some other time…" I suggest.

"…Uh, okay," he says, his mouth already full of food. I smirk before turning to my own food and whispering a small prayer. I'm about to take a bite out of my food before Chris talks through his food again.

"Hey, DA," he says.  
"Yes?"

"What's our plan for going after Wesker?" A good question. Hopefully, he can be patient.

"Considering that we just arrived here, I don't think that we should do it tonight," I say stating an obvious fact.

"Yeah, I figured that. What are we gonna do in the mean time?"

"Gather information. Remember, I don't exactly know where he is –just that he's around here." He simply nods and continues to eat. I too begin to eat, enjoying the simple meal of biscuits, gravy and sausage.

This one's going to be different –I can feel it. Never before have I had so many unknowns. I guess I could be called weak and unconventional for doing such a thing –turning against an employer without another contract to do so or, even letting a former target live, let alone teaming up with him. I'm sure had it been anyone else, the job would have been done that Saturday. But I don't care about money; I care about what's right.

I take another bite of food, before taking a look outside, towards the horizon. I can see the dying sun, and from it the sky fading out from bright yellows, to reds, all the way to a dark blue –a sign of the on coming night. Hopefully, you enjoy these next few days, Mr. Wesker, because where your going, night never ends.

------------------------------

**Date:** Thursday, June 1, 2006 (early morning)  
**Location:** A few miles outside Sky Pass

Embedded, almost hidden among the surrounding forest sat a lone cabin looking out into the valley and the small town below. From the outside it seemed like any normal, family vaction, mountain cabin, but to the person inside, it was refuge. All was silent until a voice echoed out in the darkness...

"FUCK!" seventeen-year old William "Billy" Shanks shouted as he punched the wall of the cabin. Quickly he retracted his hand, looking it over for injuries. Stupid? Yes -considering he just punched a _wall _with all of his strength. He pulled up a nearby chair and, taking a seat, continued to look over his hand. It didn't hurt much, due to the adrenalin rush he was experiencing, but he knew he would feel it later. Slowly, he let his hand drop, his body trembling with anger.

_I hate them so much _he thought, his head in his hands. _They just don't understand..._ He held his head for a couple seconds longer before throwing his head back and shouting, "GOD, WHY!?!?!?!"

He couldn't understand it, and probably never would; why his father would beat him and yell at him while his mother would stand by passively, he would never know. So, in the early hours of the morning, he flew from hell, to the only place he knew he could find refuge.

_They probably won't even notice I'm gone...well, dad might; he'd probably wonder where damn punching bag is... _Tears welled in his eyes at that last thought. It took almost everything he had to prevent himself from completely breaking down. For the next few minutes he sat there, rocking back in forth in the chair, red eyed and a runny nosed.

"I'm tired..." he muttered, finally. Slowly, he made his way toward the bedroom -taking care to lock the front door- and collapsed on the bed.

It was a couple hours later when Billy awoke in a cold sweat, images of a nightmare fading from his mind. He had been running through an endless forest; a horrible, ragged pant following him. Everywhere he turned, that _thing_ would follow him. He could never lose it; he couldn't shake it at all. And as he ran the forest changed and soon he was running down an endless corridor, and the beast had taken the form of his father.

_Why can't that fucking prick leave me alone? _Billy sat up, and wiped some sweat off his face, using the bedside window as a mirror. He turned away from the window...and quickly turned back. _What the hell? _This time, he actually glanced out the window. _Am I seein things? _Everything looked normal; no crazy-hockey-mask-wearing-slash-potato-sac-over-the-head-chainsaw-wielding freaks. _So why am I all freaked out_? He looked around again and again, reassuring himself that the it was nothing, that it was just a feeling brought on by the dream. _It's nothing...gotta be nothing._ It was then that he also noticed just how dry his mouth was.

_Get a drink of water, and that's it...I'm goin back to bed. _Cautiously, he moved from the bedroom, to the living room, to the kitchen, where he grabbed a small glass of water. Sure it wet his mouth, but did squat to ease his nerves. _Where's some alcohol when you need it? I mean _actually_ need it?_ As he made his way back to bed, he passed by the front door, and stopped. _There's nothing outside...nothing. _Problem was, he wanted proof. He reached out, turned the knob, and stepped outside, only to rush back in again. _Okay, there; see? Nothing! Just cold and nothing!_ He locked the door and rushed back to bed, lied down and closed his eyes, allowing for pure relaxation wash over him.

The feeling was short lived, however, as his eyes shot open wide and a chill ran the length of his body. _I locked the door before I went to bed...and it was unlocked when I woke._ He continued to lay there, and listened.

It was very faint, almost so faint that in a completely an urban environment, it would've been missed. But out there, in the dead-quiet mountains, the sound of ragged breathing reached Billy's ears. _Oh. My. Fuck. I gotta get outta here!_ _Wait..._

Footsteps...big footsteps...

From what Billy could hear, the _thing_ was "tip-toeing" from the other bedroom to the living room. Quietly, Billy slipped out of bed, and tip-toed toward the front door. He didn't even try to get a look at it; all the people in the movies who try to see it, die shortly afterwards, and he was not about to let that happen. He grabbed the deadbolt, praying that it wouldn't make a sound, and unlocked the door.

* * *

AN-Oh snap. Cliffy. Don't blame me for this, blame my friend, who sort of co-writes this thing. Anyway, if you're wondering about Sky Pass, I made it up. I couldn't find any good town up in the mountain, so...there. Oh, and if you didn't get it, it's Chris-pov, story/flashback, DA-pov, then a completely different pov introducing a new character. 


	8. But Now That Innoncence Is Gone From Me

AN- I never give up on things, and because I've posted this chapter says that I do aim to finish it. Sorry it took so long, Burningbridges. I only hope you can forgive me. Now, this chapter has a lot of dialogue, so if you're not particularly keen about that, sorry. Anyway, here it is. For those of you patiently waiting, I'm really sorry. And you know what? I'm going to try to really make an effort to post the next chapter. Also I've noticed something…and it scares me a little. Does DA sound a little like a Gary Stu/ Marty Stu? It's been bugging me a little lately. Someone let me know!

* * *

Chapter 7: …But Now That Innocence Is Gone From Me

Run. All he knew was run; Run as if his life depended on it. Run because his life _did_ depend on it.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!" Billy panted in between breaths.

He'd only been running for about a minute or so, but his lungs were already burning, and his legs were cramping up, the cold air adding to the fact. His heart pounded in his chest, beating so fast that he swore it beat out of rhythm. But despite his physical pains, he continued to push, because, like they say, "It's fear that gives men wings".

Tearing through the woods behind him was the creature that had crept into his house. He still didn't know what it looked like; he didn't dare turn around for fear of tripping over a plant root or something. He was sure of one thing, though; the thing chasing him was huge.

An inhuman screech came from behind him, which was shortly answered by a chorus of similar screeches as the sound rebounded off the trees. The result was a deafening, resonate roar that seemingly came from everywhere. It was enough to break anyone's spirits, what more to a teenager? If anything the sound pushed him faster.

It wasn't before long that he began to slow down, fatigue gripping his body. He willed himself to go faster, but only managed to stumble over his own feet. So he began to crawl, desperately trying to move, to get away from this demon that he dared not set his eyes upon. Except…it should have killed him by now.

Realizing this, Billy turned over and for once looked back. Nothing. No screaming monster, no horrible creature about to tear him to pieces; it was just _nothing_. _It…yeah! Where the fuck'd it go?_ It wasn't like he wanted to find it. But crazy shit always happened in the movies when the monster disappeared. He backed up into a tree, so at least it couldn't come at him from behind.

His heart was still beating like crazy, and his head felt like it was swimming. His head felt terribly hot despite it being less than forty degrees outside. "Fuuuuuuck…" he groaned, drawing out the word. Perhaps he should've invested his time working out at school then going home to get beaten. Billy attempted to stand up, and almost _threw_ up, instead. After such a hard run, and in such bad shape, there would be no chance for him if the monster came back. If this is what that creature wanted, well then it got it.

"Come on, you…you son-nava bitch!" Billy slurred to no one. "Aren you gonna eat me?" No reply. He slowly began to crawl away, pausing only when his vision began to cloud up. He took a few deeps breaths and continued to crawl. "You bastard! Come-mon out here!" Still, nothing.

Billy continued to crawl until he reached an empty clearing. Looking up, he noted the small shed on the opposite him on the far side of the clearing. He attempted to stand again, but only tripped and fell in the grass. At this point, he really did feel like dying; his head was pounding, and he felt like throwing up again. So when the odd sound of metal scratching against metal echoed across, the clearing, he didn't even move. Even when he heard footsteps and voices, he still remained silent. It was only when a strong hand turned him over did he bother to say anything.

"Are you going to kill me?" He asked, attempting to see through the man's sunglasses.

"No," the man responded, sounding almost glad to see him, "I've got a better use for you."

----------------------------

**Later the same day…**

----------------------------

"Hey…uh, Advocate," He calls to me. I can't believe it; it's been almost twelve hours since we talked in the diner and he still doesn't know what to call me. We've also managed to migrate back toward the same diner for breakfast. I look up from my plate to see his head poking over the local newspaper. "Listen to this," He starts with a mouthful of eggs. "'Local teen goes missing'…" How like a small town to report every little thing that goes wrong. Interesting.

"What happened?" I ask, taking a bite from a piece of toast.

"…Well, I guess neighbors of the family heard a car being started and thought that it was being stolen," He says without looking up. "You know small town folks are," he adds quietly, glancing at me and then back to the newspaper. I slowly nod, wiping some egg yoke with my bread. "So they call the police. They search the house only to find the son missing. Then a little later, they find the missing car but no boy."

"Sounds like a runaway to me."

"Yeah maybe, but the parents insist that the boy was kidnapped." he says, putting the paper down. "Wanna check it out?" he offers.

"I thought we were looking for Wesker," I say.

"This _is_ looking for Wesker!" He moves his head closer, and in a quieter tone adds, "Listen; before the outbreak, people went missing in the forests, and others that were found looked as though they had been eaten alive. When we went in, we had no idea of the horrors we would find." He grabs the newspaper and points to something, "And look, he's not the only one. 'If you also recall, two others have gone missing recently as well –David Burham on Saturday, and Melissa Hart on Monday…' Sounds an aweful lot like Raccoon to me. And…hey!"

He turns around and taps the shoulder of the man sitting behind him. "What?" He asks in a rough, accented voice, sounding slightly annoyed. He looks to Chris and then to me…and small shiver runs down my spine. He frowns and looks back to Chris.

"Uh hey, do you know where this kid lives?" Chris asks, pointing out the story in the newspaper.

"Hmm? …Oh yeah, just…actually I could show you," the man trails off, stroking his stubble of a beard.

"Oh, good! Let us pay first, and then we can get going," Chris says, smiling.

"Go ahead. I gotta make a phone call anyway," the man says. He stands up, grabs the jacket in the chair next him and walk outside, a cell phone now in his hand.

"Alright!" Chris turns to me, and his smile falters. "Now what?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, looking past him and at the man.  
"You look…pissed or something." I ignore him and keep watching the man on the phone. He keeps looking over here, looking at Chris. He looks nervous and…now he's looking at me. "What? What's wrong with him?" Chris says, turning around in his seat.

"…nothing. Just a feeling…" Chris turns back, and glares at me.

"No! You tell me –don't do this bullshit again."

"What bullshit?" The man says, now standing behind Chris. "You guys done payin?"

Chris looks to me, than back to the man. "Yeah, yeah we're done."  
"Good." He says. "By the way, you fellahs can call me Sal if you like."

"Sal?" Chris asks as we follow 'Sal' out the door. "My name's Chris Redfield, and this is…uh…"

"Reynaldo," I finish quickly, offering my hand. We shake and he gets in his car.

"I suppose you guys are gonna follow me, eh? Or do you just want me to drive you there?" Sal calls from his inside the car.

"We'll follow you," Chris says, catching my eyes.

Once inside our own car, he turns to me, and says, "So what is it with this guy?"

"Nothing…just keep on your guard," I say. I don't know what it is, but there's something about Sal that bothers me…

"Fine," Chris scoffs, starting the car.

All is relatively silent except for the sounds of the street, and the engine itself. We've begun to follow Sal and Chris inexplicably begins to laugh. I take a sidelong glance at him. What is it now?

"Where'd you come up with 'Reynado'?" He asks, looking at me for a brief second.

"Travel name," I mutter.

"Oh…" he says, before going back to the road. "Hey! Can I call you Reynaldo?"

"What did I tell you, Chris?"

"Oh, yeah, right. Wait, so how come you don't have real name?"

I pause for a moment, thinking. I don't actually know me name –I forgot my name ages ago, figuring that when I died, it wouldn't matter what my name was, I'd still be going to Hell. Hmm…

"I never finished telling you my story, did I?"

"Huh?" He gives me a funny look. "Oh, no…you didn't. But what does that have to do with –"

"Everything…"

----------------------------------

_The boy had stopped running ages ago, his little legs and little lungs not being capable of pushing him. So he decided to walk around the neighborhood. _

"_I'm so lucky," He whispered sadly, kicking pebbles out of the way. "While everyone else's dads are going away, my dad doesn't." He supposed he should have been happy about this, but all the other kids were starting to not like him because of it. He could even sense it in his best friend, whom he'd just talked with a few minutes ago. _

_It wasn't his fault that his dad had gotten a job with Umbrella. It wasn't even anything great, or at least, that's what the boy could tell. All the boy knew was that his dad drove one of those forklift thingies and moved stuff around in a big building. But apparently even a job like that merited the boy's father ineligibility from fighting in the war_

_The boy walked a little farther, only to stop at a small white house. He walked up the empty drive way –"But daddy's never late," he wondered aloud –toward the front door. _

_Once inside, the smell of cooked food blasted him in the face, and the edges of his mouth tugged up. The feeling was killed, however, when his irate mother walked out of the kitchen._

"_Hijo, where've you been?" She scolded. The boy looked down at his feet._

"_Mama, I was in the park…" He began._

"_So why are you late?"_

"…_I don't know," He mumbled in response._

"_Jesus-Maria-Joseph! Don't you tell me you don't know!!!" She hollered. She raised her hand, and the boy instinctively flinched, shutting his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, his mother was already heading back toward the kitchen. "Balong(1), if your father was here he would have punished you for being late…"_

_The boy nodded slowly. And then it occurred to him: "Where is papa?"_

_His mother whipped around, a heavy frown creasing her forehead. "I don't know but he's going to be in trouble too when he gets home!" The boy flinched again as his mother slammed the kitchen the door. _

_He was about to go to his room when his mother shouted through the kitchen door: "GET READY FOR DINNER, BALONG!" _

_About twenty minutes later the boy emerged from his room with clean clothes and a towel to try his black hair. He was about to enter the bathroom when he heard the front door open. Excited, he forgot the towel, and dashed to the living room to see his father standing by the front door. _

"_Papa!" the young boy nearly squealed and ran up to him for a hug…but stopped short when a pair of hateful eyes peered down on him…_

-----------------------------

"This is the place?" Chris called from his window.

They had followed Sal up in to the hills, into the dark forest, to a lone cabin seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It was a comely little thing, inviting, but that the door seemed to have been ripped away (it was barely hanging by a hinge) betrayed this fact.

"Yup. This is the place they say that Shanks boy was taken before he up and disappeared," Sal said, standing in front of the cabin. _Good…we're getting somewhere._

"Hey…Reynaldo…wake up!" Chris said laying a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder. Chris blinked, and realized there was a blade resting under his chin. _Holy shit!_ The moment he'd touch him – no the moment Chris displaced the air with his movements – the Advocate had awoken. Chris stared into his unblinking eyes, seeing anger and rage…and just as suddenly it went away; the death grip around his wrist subsided and the knife dropped.

"Sorry Chris…" was all the Advocate could say.

"Hey…y'all okay in there?" Sal called from outside.

"YEAH! Yeah, we're fine, we're good," Chris shouted from the car.

Once out of the car, Chris began to exam the place. Obviously the local police had been there earlier as there was police tape sectioning off some areas. One such area held the 'stolen' car – a '99 Chevy Pick-Up. Not wanting to disturb the crime scene, Chris simply walking around it and took a brief glimpse inside. He also checked out the immediate area surrounding the truck – _No signs of a struggle._

"What do you think, Chris?" the voice of the Advocate startling Chris from behind. Chris sighed, standing up from his position on the ground, and said, "I think you're right…the boy must've run away…but he's not here."

"So…"

"It has to be Wesker. I know it, I can feel it. He has something to do with this case…and the other two cases, also; otherwise, nothing makes sense."

The Advocate nodded as Chris went over to Sal. The man was leaning against the side of his car, a bag of sunflower seeds in his hands. When Chris got close he tucked the bag away, and stood up.

"Hey Sal, we're gonna go inside. You can go back to town if you want."

"Huh? Oh it's alright now! I'll wait here so I can show you the way out. Wouldn't want you guys to get lost or nothin'," Sal said with a smile. Chris patted him on the shoulder, said his thanks, and carefully entered through the door, taking care not to break any of the crime scene tape, the Advocate following closely.

The first thing to catch Chris's eye were the marks on the hard wood floor and the walls. _Claw marks…Wesker, you bastard! _The marks went all over from the main hallway to all around the living room. It was probably also responsible for the smashed door. _But no smashed and mangled corpse of a boy…_none whatsoever. But if this new creation of Wesker's hadn't been sent to kill, then what had it been sent to do? Or maybe it had broken out from his facility? _No…Wesker's too smart to allow that…_

"Looking for the boy?"

Chris's blood froze. "It can't be…" Chris whipped around, the Advocate following suit, only to see _him_ standing in the door way. "…Albert Wesker…" Chris meant to shout, but it came out as a whisper. And that's when he saw Sal standing beside him, shotgun in hand.

"Why hello Chris; It's been too long," Wesker , an evil grin setting on his face. "And Death's Advocate, my, what do we have here?"

Chris balled his fists, glaring into the sunglasses that seemingly never left Wesker's face. He took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled, attempting to calm down but it wasn't working; his hands shook, and his teeth barred and he kept the glare strong. At least he had enough self control to not lunge at him, knowing that Sal would probably just blow him away.

"Wesker!" Chris actually shouted this time. "What have you done with the boy?"

"Boy?" Wesker wondered aloud. "Boy, boy, boy…OH! You mean Mr. Billy Shanks? Yes. He will be…quite different when I'm done with him."  
"YOU BASTARD! HOW DARE YOU - "

"How dare _I_?" Wesker threw back and laughed. "For science! For money! Aren't you in the least bit interested what my new virus will do to the boy?"

Chris's eyes widened. "A new virus…" he whispered in disbelief. Suddenly a new hate built up inside, but before he said anything, Wesker interrupted.

"Yes, Chris; a new virus. Surprised? Shocked? Angry? Oh well it doesn't matter; you'll be out of the way soon. And you…" Wesker turned to the Advocate. "I don't suppose I'll be getting a refund, will I?"

"Well, I could wire it back to you, but there's always the question of whether or not you'll be around to use it…" the Advocate answered, tersely. At this, Wesker coughed, and hand going to his face to cover up a large smile.

"I like you, Death's Advocate," Wesker said, "but, I think this will be the last time I ever do business with you." He turned to leave, patting Sal on the shoulder. "You know what to do."

"So, Reynaldo, how does it feel?" Sal asked as soon as Wesker left. Chris looked between them, from DA to Sal back the Advocate. _What's he talking about?_ "How does it feel," Sal continued, "to know that I'm about to blow yer ass away?"

"Wait, do you know him?" Chris asked. Sal let out a low chuckle.

"Only every hitman in the world knows about him! He's among the best…or so they say." Sal said, with a bit of malice. Apparently, Sal didn't seem to like him. "Oh yeah, nice try 'Reynaldo', but I knew you were Death's Advocate!"

"Sal, are you going to use that shotgun that you take pride in so much? Or are you just going to keep talking to us?" The Advocate hissed. _That's different…_

"So ya'll heard about me? HA HAH!! I like it!" Sal laughed, pumping the twelve gauge shotgun. "They call me Shotty Sal. Looky here," he said, pointing to five lines etched into the barrel. "That's my record so far…" He motioned for them to move toward the living room, still monologue-ing. He kept going on about this and that, how he would be the next great hitman, after killing the Advocate of course. Chris could only roll his eyes. "…that's right, I'll be number one, and when folks hear that one of these marks is the famed Death's Advocate…" and he stopped. Chris frowned at him trying to figure him. It was only after their would be killer's eyes bulged out and shouted "RUN" before leaving would the two have any idea what was going on behind them.

* * *

AN. Eh, it's a shitty ending. Oh well. 


	9. Slight Disorientation

AN-Whoa...I know...where the fuck have I been for almost a year? But don't worry, I'm still writting. I guess I thought I couldn't get writers block and then BAM the shit blindsides me and I'm out for 10 months. Anyway, this chapter is a little different, and after reading the last chapter you may think "WHY?! YOU S.O.B. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?!" But don't worry; all will be explained in due time. I promise the next chapter will be the conclusion to the previous chpter the story will pick up again, but right now, here it is, the next chapter of Death's Advocate.

Discalimer: Resident Evil belongs to Capcom--but that doesn't mean I can't try to bootleg it!

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Chapter 8: Some Slight Disorientation May Be Involved

**Time and Place Unknown **

What was it? This feeling? This feeling of free falling and floating? This feeling of pressure and yet relaxation? This feeling of being larger than he actually was? It was confusing to no end. And then of course there was _it_.

He could feel it, tunneling through his brain. What it was, he had no idea, though he knew what it felt like. It was like a worm burrowing deeper and deeper inside his head so that eventually there would be no removing it.

Suddenly, an image appeared before his "eyes". He was looking up at his father, who in turn was smiling back at him, which was odd because when did his dad ever smile at him? He couldn't quite place what or why it seemed familiar or even when the image was, but he continued to gather what he could. They were outside, Billy concluded, maybe at a park or in the backyard. Perhaps it was a party, or simply a sunny afternoon, Billy wasn't too sure. As the imaged continued to clear, happiness enveloped him, bringing a sense of peace and calm, a feeling that everything was going to be alright.

And in an instant it was gone.

The feelings were gone, the image nonexistent. He couldn't even remember what he had just seen. Seriously, what was up with all this stuff?

Suddenly, another image popped up. This time Billy took his time to analyze the image. This image had various other people in it, people who he recognized: his friends. They were all smiling or laughing about something, what that something was Billy didn't know. They looked to be around his high school somewhere, maybe out by the entrance, or in the parking lot, but unlike the image before, he recognized this image. It was simply an afternoon after school, though he recognized this image in particular. It had been last Friday…or rather, the last Friday he could remember. That afternoon they'd gone to the center of town just to hang out. Sky Pass wasn't exactly the major center of anything, but there were a few things that a group of teenagers could do to pass the time. Yes, Billy remembered it well, the fun, the joy—sure he was just hanging out but when fucking Darth Vader was your dad, you took anything you could get. Oh yes, he could remember what happened that night too.

The image changed and once again he was faced with another image--another memory. It was of his dad again, but this time his face was contorted, his mouth open, yelling. He recognized this memory too. Oddly enough, the memory was of what he had just been thinking of, and was in essence a follow up memory; it was the memory of what happened after his little escapade, if one could call it that. The fun, the joy, and the happiness were quickly sucked away to be replaced by fear, sadness, and darkness. He could remember everything, from his father's initial shout to being dragged on the floor. From there he had literally been thrown in his room, and locked in, so that he could "think about what he had done". Like his room could offer him any kind of sanctuary.

The room was, in essence, a prison cell. The walls were painted this off shade of gray, and the floor was hardwood. There was one small dresser, one bed, twin size, and no closet. The door was bolted on the outside, so there would be no "prison breaks", leaving only two barred windows to let in the outside world.

Bullshit.

It wasn't right; it wasn't fair! Why, of all people did _he_ have to suffer? Was it so that everyone else could have their _fucking_ perfect world? Was he just the world's bitch, destined to suffer forever? Probably. It was always like that. No one would help him either. Why? Cuz they were all infatuated with themselves to notice him. He tried to get some kind of attention every now and again, but it was just as good as trying to introduce one's self to a tree; no matter what, people just ignored him. He tried to deal with it, and take it in stride, but after he had returned home that night, he knew he couldn't take it anymore.

He was going kill himself…yes, that would solve everything.

But then again…he would be dead…and usually one wins the game when they live all the way to the end. So what had he come up with instead? He'd runaway.

Everyday, when he got home, before entering his house he would loosen up the bolts that kept the bars on the window. Then he ran...and just when he thought he was free, landed in this hell hole.

Why could he not find peace? All he wanted was to stay up in that cabin…and then some fucking monster decided to chase him. It chased him, it terrified him. It was like his father chasing him, but only in some new, evil form. He just wanted to be left alone, and he was still being scared to death. What the fuck did he have to do? What the fuck did he _ever_ do? He didn't deserve it, none of it!

As the memories passed, from the bear-monster, to his father, Billy felt something, like a sting of an ember in his mind. What was it? It was something quite different from the cold and the chill of fear sadness; this was something different all together… The memories came and passed and soon he could feel the burn of embers, and the lick of a flame.

As the 'fire' slowly began to build, so did his realization, that when he was being beaten and yelled at, he should've been fighting back; that that son-of-a-bitch, bastard, mother fucker had no right to be the tyrant he was! And fuck his mom, she could go to hell for all Billy cared. That whore of mother didn't give a shit about him, why should he give a shit about her?

Frustration, anger, _hate_; such emotions that he had held back before suddenly burst forth. Fuck feeling sorry for himself, he was going to do something about his life, and take charge…

_Starting with getting rid of this worm parasite in my fucking head. _

Billy began to concentrate on the worm, focusing his mind on that odd tunneling feeling. If he could stop it, maybe, just maybe, could he start to move. _Come on, come on!_ He could actually feel it panic, and quicken the pace, causing images to fly faster and faster. If anything, the memories only served to fuel his rage. He fought it here, and there, attempting to route it somehow.

He would not be put down again. He always thought that fighting would never solve anything, but that was before. If freedom was the prize, then he would fight for it, or die trying. Either way, nothing would bother him again.

_What?_ What was this? Could he feel in his left arm? Yes! And he could now feel in his feet, too! _I'm actually winning…_he thought in disbelief. He quickly shook of the "daze" and continued to push the worm, and also trying to move his arms.

_Why do I feel…water?_ The thought quickly passed as more and more of his body was surrendered to him.

He began to flail his arms, and kick his legs…which oddly seemed bigger than before. No matter; he would break free and that's all that mattered.

_Almost…almost! I almost got ya, you mother fuck! Almost!_

_My body…now just my head…_

…

…

…

_Almost there…_

_I…_

_Have…_

_You…_

Billy wrenched his eyes open, immediatley looking down at himself...

And screamed.

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AN- I don't know about that ending. I had a little more tacked on there, but I took out before I sent this out. So as you can see I was trying to go for the over angsty ridiculous teenager thing...I think I got it. Oh yeah, and the Darth Vader thing...I couldn't think of anything imposing and evil as Darth Vader, though it did start out as Hitler...anyways, you get my point, I hope. And sorry for the lack of length, hopefully I'll write somthing longer next time.


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